


The Lion in Quandary

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [7]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Battle, Blood and Gore, Depression, Family Drama, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Reincarnation, Romantic Soulmates, True Love, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21567199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Achilles' new Hector takes him home to Greece, and everything seems to be peaceful. At first.
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Troy 2004)
Series: The Lion and the Bull [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513298
Comments: 29
Kudos: 47





	1. The Shores of Home

“Sire! Here! The storm took the fence down,” the boy called out.

Karan dismounted and left his horse with the foreman who’d accompanied him. It was rocky here, and there was a sharp drop-off just beyond, over the ocean. No point in risking his horse’s delicate legs stepping around the stones. 

The morning breeze stirred his dark curls, and blew the last of the clouds across the blue sky. Clambering carefully over the jagged landscape, Karan noted how the sheep had eaten the grass down. Yes, this was an important section of fence, then. The flock would wander right up to the edge of it, and right over.

He surveyed the damage and nodded. “Head back now. Tell Sol to take the flock to the far end and close off the gate to this side. Cole and I will walk the fence along the bluff and see where else we need repairs. Tie a good strip of that red marker so we can find it again easily. What’s the matter?”

Dru, a wiry young lad with bitten fingernails and a tendency to be easily distracted, was staring down over the edge of the bluff.

“There’s a body,” the boy said, staring with morbid eagerness.

“Let me see… step back, now, you’re too near. Where?” Karan peered carefully over the scrubby foliage that clung to the rocky terrain.

“Over there!” Dru pointed, and Karan finally saw the body lying in the golden sand near the water’s edge. It was hard to see. The man’s skin was only a bit more golden than the sand, and he was naked, face down.

“Alright,” Karan said. It was his property; he’d better find out who the poor fellow was. He stepped back over the rocks to his mount. “Cole, you look along here for more damage. I’ll go down along the south path to the beach and see about this.”

“I’ll go with you!” Dru volunteered eagerly.

“No, you won’t, you’ll go tell Sol what I told you about the flock. Do you want to see of pile of dead sheep down there with that fellow? Go on, now.” Karan said patiently.

Sending the wiry boy in one direction, and his thin, short foreman in the other, along the fence, Karan mounted his horse and headed for the south path to wend his way alone down to the beach. That storm last night had been a significant one. He wasn’t surprised someone’s boat had capsized and left him hurt or dead on the beach. He was a little surprised that the someone was naked, but… well, who knew? 

***-

Achilles opened his eyes to see the waves rolling in toward him, stretching almost to him, and pulling away again. Tide going out, he noted absently. Soft, pale sand cushioned his head, and the air was mild and warm. He let his gaze wander about a bit, just noting the vibrant blue of the water and sky. It felt like home, like Thessaly. Wouldn’t that be a wonder, if his latest Hector brought him home?

Lethargy was not a sensation he had experienced often in his tumultuous existence, but it engulfed him now. In the weeks since his Hermenegild closed his eyes for the last time, Achilles had done his best to handle it well. He didn’t fling himself into the sea in a frantic bid to escape the pain and silently beg the sea god to hurry, hurry, and take him to the next Hector.

He dealt with the funeral; Christians apparently buried their dead rather than burn them. He’d purchased a fine, heavy stone crypt for his beloved, and had it carved and emblazoned with every symbol his Hector had ever indicated he would want. 

Then, in a burst of generosity, he’d made the deed to the villa over to Simon, who had served them faithfully (albeit rather testily at times) for nearly a score of years. The servant was an old man by the time Hermenegild felt that first pain in his chest, that unavoidable sign that Achilles’ time with his beloved was over, for now. Simon cried twice. Once when they buried his Lordship, and once when Achilles handed him the deed and a sizable pile of gold. Well, he’d earned a comfortable retirement.

Finally, when all was settled, Achilles had walked slowly to the water. The slowness wasn’t in his joints; he drank his tonic dutifully whenever his mother sent it. The slowness was… reluctance. He found he wanted to linger where his memories were with his Hector. Rather than desperately flee the anguish, this time, Achilles walked around in it for some weeks, staring at the courtyard, the chapel, going out to the field of yellow flowers they had visited occasionally. 

At length, however, he was ready to heed his beloved’s last words. “I’ll be waiting for you, you know. Come and find me, because I will be waiting for you.”

Achilles had done his best not to show his grief to his prince in his last moments. But it was sharp. He had memories with his Hermenegild that would only ever be shared with him. That was one thing he had learned. Those brief visions that had haunted his saint’s dreams from previous lives never developed into full-fledged memory. 

Oh, he’d told Hermenegild of Philip, and Bardaisan’s scrolls, and the vineyard they’d owned together, and the little dramas of Philip’s church and its politics. He’d told him of Victor training the pitiful specimens of Dalmatia. He’d told him of Troy, and the temple of Apollo, and of New Ilium, and their battles with the gangs of thieves that had terrorized the populace until Aeneas and his general, and their astounding fighting skills, had defeated them. He’d even confessed a bit about the island, and the lethe. A bit. 

Hermenegild had listened with interest, and occasionally asked him, over the years, about moments he felt a strange feeling of familiarity, and was it an echo from one of those former existences. Sometimes it was. 

But for the most part, each incarnation was a creature of his time, and his upbringing, and his culture. His memories were of his own life. And then, again and again, that life ended.

Now Achilles’ mission was to find his next Hector, and protect him. But already he was uncertain if the pain of losing Hermenegild would be soothed by this next incarnation. In some ways, it was harder each time. 

Thus he lay in the sand, the morning sun on his naked back, watching the waves roll in and out. He really should rise, and find clothing, and go looking for Hector. _Remember the horrific state in which you found your prince in Hispalis,_ he told himself. _Rise. Rise._ But his spirit was heavy and dull. He would rest just a bit longer.

“Are you injured? Can you hear me?” 

Achilles blinked. That was Greek. There was a peculiar accent to it, but it was Greek.

He stirred a bit, and wearily put one hand into the sand by his ribs, pushing himself up to roll over and see who addressed him. Then he lay gazing up in hopeful wonder at this unexpectedly auspicious beginning; his Hector had found _him!_

A combination of joy and sorrow bubbled up in his chest simultaneously. His Hector, his hair dark and shining again, rather long, in his eyes—and those eyes were wary, as eyes that look upon trespassing strangers tend to be. His skin was tanned, and his beard close and well kept. He looked terribly young now, to Achilles, although he was undoubtedly over 30. Still, his cheeks looked smooth and full. His lips were red. He was so beautiful, it almost hurt his warrior to gaze at him.

“You said you would be waiting for me,” Achilles said, and found his voice was hoarse and scratchy from salt water, or from the tears in his throat. His eyes felt swollen. He tried to smile. 

Karan glanced over him. “I think you might have gotten a hit to the head. Can you sit? Here, take my cloak. I’ll be the Good Samaritan, today.”

He helped Achilles to his feet and they moved into the shade of the bluff, and perched on the rocks. Karan gave him some fresh water from his bag, and waited quietly while the stranger drank, and brushed the sand from his face and arms.

“Were you drinking last night?” Karan finally asked, not with judgment, but simply to ascertain how the naked stranger had come to be unconscious on his shore.

Achilles just sat for a moment, the soft grey cape wrapped loosely around him, and contemplated his new Hector. A Greek! How achingly kind fate could occasionally be! But then he remembered Victor and told himself to be careful. Always be prepared for pain. This was his motto now.

“I guess I was,” he finally said.

“Do you live in Rhamnus?” His Hector asked. Ah, Attica. He knew of the area.

“Thessaly,” he said, hoping that Thessaly was still Thessaly.

His Hector nodded. “Do you feel any injury? Does your head hurt?”

Achilles shook his head. “No. I thank you.”

His Hector looked around a bit. “Were you on a boat? Do you know what happened to your clothes?”

Achilles smiled tiredly. “I must have decided to go swimming.”

“In that storm last night?” His beloved looked doubtful. “What is your name?”

“Achilles,” he said without thinking, and then winced, waiting for a reaction. But there was no particular reaction. It must be a common name now in Greece.

“Well, Achilles, I’m Karan, and you’re on my land, so I think you should come back to my home and let me see to you. My wife and servants will tend to you, if you need tending. We can send a message to any of your people to come and help you. How does that sound?”

 _Wife._ Achilles felt a sick thud in his chest. But the first order of business was his love’s safety, not his own craving to envelop him again. 

“You’re very kind,” he managed, blinking up at Karan through his rather swollen eyes. He wondered what year it was, and what dangers his love was facing, but for the moment, it was enough to have this simple exchange, this seemingly neutral launch. His instinct was just to let it unfold, and not alert his love to the colossal cosmic lightning strike that had just hit the beach, and would turn the sand at his feet to glass.


	2. Karan

Karan was truly kind. He insisted that the naked stranger be wrapped in his own cloak, and mounted on his horse.

“You have nothing on your feet,” he said, when Achilles tried to demur. “The soft sand gives way to sharp rocks once we leave the beach, and the road to my home is long.”

“You own all of this?” Achilles asked as they left the beach, and moved along the rising road to the pastoral hills that rolled green under the mid-morning sun.

Karan smiled up at him, that sweet smile Achilles so loved. “I do. It was my father’s.”

Achilles gazed down at him. He seemed a happy Hector.

“Who was your father?” He asked.

“Obelius of Marathon,” Karan answered, as if he expected the name to be recognized.

Achilles waited to see if more information was coming, but no. Well, Hector had never been chatty in any incarnation.

“—And you?” Karan asked, after waiting politely.

“Pe—Pearce. Of Oeta,” Achilles decided abruptly. Achilles might be a common name now, but Peleus probably was not.

Karan nodded. No Greek with any manners would scowl, “Never heard of him.”

Achilles found himself unaccountably sleepy as they rode on. Finally he said, “Perhaps my head is not quite as it should be.”

At once, Karan stopped the horse. “We’ve still a ways to go… should we rest in the shade for a while? Would you like some more water?”

The warrior found himself less the protector than the protected, and allowed his beloved to help him from the horse and over to the soft grass beneath a spreading tree. Wrapped in the grey cloak, Achilles lay back and closed his eyes. His head felt heavy, and there were no real thoughts there. He listened to the soft roar of silence and drifted into sleep.

When he woke, his Hector was standing a ways away talking to two fellows who seemed to be servants. When he saw that his guest had awakened and was sitting again, he returned.

“I’m going to have Cole and Dru take you back to the house, and my wife will tend to you. I’m sorry to leave you, but I have a bit of trouble to attend to. The storm made a mess of my fences, and my livestock are wandering around as confused as you.” Karan smiled down at him.

Achilles sat and accepted another swig of water. “I thank you. You’ve been more than hospitable… don’t let me interrupt your duties.”

“I will see you when I return. My wife’s name is Zoe.” He held out his hand and Achilles took it. It was a much harder hand than those of his other Hectors. The original Prince of Troy had callouses from his sword, and the leather reins of his horse, but this was the hand of a man who worked his own land assiduously. Achilles wondered what it would feel like dragging over his skin and decided that it would feel marvelous. He smiled a bit at the thought and then sighed, and looked over at the waiting servants.

“I thank you again,” he said, his tired eyes turning back to his beloved. When Karan turned away, he noted the braid hanging down between his shoulders. Ah, it had been a long time since he’d had a Hector with long locks.

When Achilles was on the horse again, and being led by the two servants, he took the opportunity to fish a bit for information.

“Yes, all this land is Lord Karan’s,” the older servant, Cole, told him proudly. “Livestock, the pasturage, all the fishing boats you’ll see along the shore—“

“Almost all,” Dru corrected with a knowing look, but Cole scowled him into silence.

“He seems a good master,” Achilles commented.

“Oh yes,” Cole assured him.

“It could have been much worse,” Dru added, widening his eyes. Again, Cole stared him down, exasperated. Clearly there was some bit of intrigue that a good servant would not discuss before a stranger.

Achilles looked at their clothing and decided that not a great deal of time had passed since he left Gades. The tunics were long and loose, and the sandals of familiar make. Karan’s cape, before he removed it, was fastened with a clasp that seemed a new development, and the saddle he was sitting now had evolved a bit… saddles seemed to change more readily than clothing, he noted.

And of course, the language. Every new life had forced him to gradually learn the pathways Latin was taking away from the court language he and Hector had learned so long ago. Now Greek seemed to rolling over as well. He hoped his own accent would be dismissed as merely “Northern.”

“It seems very peaceful here,” he finally remarked, not wanting to bluntly ask if there was a looming war or invading king the village of Rhamnus needed to worry about. They would wonder why he didn’t already know.

“Yes. No Saracens here,” Cole said in satisfaction.

Achilles didn’t ask what that was. He supposed he’d find out.

“Here, almost home,” Dru said, pointing to a distant compound. The wall was high, and surrounded a home that was nearly large enough to be called a mansion. 

“Your master works harder than a rich man usually does,” Achilles said without thinking, but neither servant seemed to take offense.

“He’s very involved,” Cole agreed. “He doesn’t sit back and leave everything to a servant while he plays the harp.”

Achilles smiled. No, he couldn’t imagine his Hector ever would.

“He loves this land,” Dru said, and it was an unexpectedly thoughtful comment from such a wild looking lad. 

“Go tell the Lady about—“ Cole gestured to their guest, and Dru ran ahead.

“Is that your son?” Achilles asked Cole.

“My brother’s son. He wears me out.” Cole grumbled.

Achilles gave a short laugh. “They do, at that age.”

A moment later they were within the compound, and Achilles managed to get himself down from the horse with the cape about him, and without any startling flashes of nudity. 

The house was very like the villa of Gades, but older now, and painted white with a chalky substance that gave it a pure, bright look. There were flowers in large clay pots by the door, clearly a woman’s touch, Achilles thought.

At the entrance of the abode, he was met by what must be his Hector’s wife. She was tall, near her husband in age, and heavily pregnant. Her thick dark hair was long, and her eyes were large and rather watchful. Her face had a bit more character than beauty, but she was attractive enough. Achilles thought she looked distrustfully at him, but pregnant women tended to be fearful, in his experience.

She welcomed him as a proper hostess would, however, and soon he found himself in a guest bedroom, watching as servants poured steaming water into a bath for him. They laid a long tunic and loose trousers of soft linen for him at the foot of the bed. 

When they left, Achilles touched the clothing. He was certain it was Karan’s. With effort, he attended to himself. The fresh warm water was soothing, and the guest room even had a few pots of oil on a shelf, so he could groom his hair and skin into smoothness. 

When he was done, however, Achilles found himself still heavy and listless, and not very interested in food. He begged pardon of his host’s servants, who came to check on him, and crawled into the bed, leaving the clothing at the foot of it. Though it was only early afternoon, he drifted off to sleep again, his head like a stone on the pillow.


	3. Depression

Achilles woke to the awareness that night had fallen, and yet there was candlelight in his room. He rolled over slowly to see his Hector—Karan, he reminded himself sleepily—coming to his bedside.

“May I see if you have a fever?” His host asked quietly.

Achilles nodded.

His Hector put a hand to his guest’s forehead. Achilles closed his eyes; it was always a comfort when his love touched him. The subtle vibration of restlessness in his gut that was always a part of him ceased at that contact. Now, the hand lingered there for several moments, and he kept his eyes closed the whole time, feeling as though the world consisted of the two of them. But sadly, only one of them knew it.

“You are perhaps a bit warm. Here, I brought more water. You must drink more.”

Achilles sat to drink, and lay back down again. “I don’t know what ails me.”

“You look strong and healthy. But your eyes are…” Karan hesitated, as if not wishing to make too personal an observation. 

Achilles lay in the bed and gazed up at his Hector in the candlelight. His tunic was a simple one, the color of wheat or sand. His arms and calves dark and defined with hard work. His neck was the full, graceful column of strength that it always was. And the hair, oh, what a wealth of curls. The deep eyes were searching him in return. 

The warrior realized that more than anything at that moment, he wished he could simply say, _May I stay here with you?_ And his Hector would say, _Of course, always,_ and that would be the end of it. 

“Where is your family? I sent word to friends of mine in Oeta, but they were unable to locate your father.” Karan finally said.

“My family is gone, for the most part. I am… adrift.” Achilles admitted.

Karan sat on the edge of the bed carefully, and put the candle on the bedside table. “When you woke on the beach and looked up at me, you looked as if you knew me. You said something … do you remember what you said?”

Achilles looked away. His throat tightened and his face worked a bit. _Please don’t ask me,_ he thought.

Karan put his hand on Achilles’ arm, watching as this beautiful but exhausted looking stranger closed his eyes again. There was something very mysterious about him.

“I’m sorry. I won’t disturb you with any more questions. I’ll leave the candle in here… no? Very well. You sleep. In the morning, if you are still unwell, perhaps we can see what my wife’s aunt can do for you. She’s good with herbs. Good night… Achilles.”

The warrior watched his Hector leave with that same even, steady gait as ever. He watched the way his shoulder moved back as he reached behind to pull the door closed, and how when he turned his head, the light shone on his cheek and jaw and throat, and the clean folds of his simple tunic. What a work of art he was to loving eyes. 

When he was gone and the room was dark and cool, Achilles lay still, staring at the moonlight through the window. The house was a solid one, with thick walls, and the silence was profound. The bed was comfortable.

As he lay, Achilles had the odd sensation that his body was much heavier than it had always been. That he was turning to stone, and could crush the bed if he were not careful. It was such a pressing feeling, he lifted his arm experimentally, but it worked quite normally. Perhaps this was just sadness? Perhaps this was what his Hector had felt, eons ago, when Troy had burned, and he sat staring into the fire at night on the island. 

Suddenly, he felt more alone than he ever had. And yet, his new Hector was only steps away. With his wife. Having forgotten Achilles once more. 

When sleep came, it came like a wave that pulled him deep underwater, and in the morning he only woke because Karan was with him again, touching his forehead once more. When Achilles opened his heavy eyes, he saw the blue sky outside the window, and his love sitting on the side of his bed. Behind him was an older woman with dark, sharp features. She was clearly the wife’s aunt.

“Let me look at him,” she finally ordered abruptly, and tapped at Karan to move aside. 

The woman—Aunt Sophia, he later learned—peered into his eyes, made him open his mouth, and then she felt very firmly around his neck and up under his jaw. She sniffed his ears. To his astonishment she even gave his forehead a quick lick, and then sat back, brow furrowed in concentration and she processed the flavor of his sweat.

Achilles carefully drew one hand up and wiped his forehead, eyeing her with some disfavor. Behind her, Karan smiled at him, and lifted his straight brows briefly as if to say, _Yes, I too have had the forehead lick._

“Not salty,” she finally said thoughtfully. “No appetite?”

He shook his head.

“How much water has he drunk? A great deal? Very thirsty?”

“No,” Karan opined, watching as she flicked the sheet aside to inspect his feet. 

Finally, she turned back to Achilles. “Where does it hurt?”

He didn’t answer because nothing hurt, exactly. But his hand came up without him realizing it, and covered his midsection just between the lowest ribs. For a long moment, he seemed to forget to breathe. His eyes drooped closed again.

Karan looked questioningly at Aunt Sophia, who rose and led him out of the room. When they were out of the patient’s line of sight, she tapped her own head knowingly. 

“I think something happened to him. My grandfather got like this when my grandmother died. He went to bed and just never got up again.”

Karan looked alarmed. He’d heard of aged people dying of despair, but this was a young, healthy, very strong and handsome man. He whispered, “He’s not going to lay there and starve himself to death in my house, is he?”

“He could if you let him. I advise you get him out of that bed and make him walk around a bit. Give him something to do, maybe outside.” She gave him a warning look. “When people get like this, they want to just curl up like an old dog. The longer they lay there, the harder it is to move them.”

She left him then, to check on her niece, who was nearing the end of her first pregnancy, and older than most new mothers.

Karan hesitated, and then went back into the bedroom. Achilles had rolled over and was now in the same position they’d found him on the beach, face pressed to the pillow. Karan sat on the edge of the bed and regarded him. It didn’t seem kind to force his guest up out of the bed when he was so clearly sunk in torpor. He lifted the sheet, bunched about the thin waist, and pulled it up over the strong, curved back. Then on impulse he carefully lifted a strand of hair that had fallen forward over the sleeping face and drew it back softly. 

That led to the need to smooth a few other strands back, and yet a few more.

“Don’t stop,” mumbled Achilles, eyes closed.

For some reason, Karan found himself obeying, and dragging his fingers lightly through the blond strands, very slowly, over and over, for several quiet minutes. Gazing down, he became aware that Achilles’ face was crumpling as if he were in pain. Then, finally, Karan saw the tears sliding down his nose to soak into the sheet.

He was startled to feel his own nose sting in sympathy. Drawing in his breath, he gave his guest a final, gentle pet, and then pulled the sheet up a bit higher around him. 

“I’ll come back later,” he promised quietly, and left the bedroom, disturbed.


	4. An Event

“There’s something about him I don’t like,” his wife said, drawing the ivory needle through the hem of the sheet. She was sitting out on the colonnade, her feet up on an overturned basket. Her belly was in her way, and it was making her moody.

“There’s something about most people you don’t like,” Karan said with some amusement.

Zoe was unable to completely smother the smirk her husband surprised out of her. She gave him a look from the corner of her eye.

“Sometimes I think there’s something about me you don’t like,” He teased her.

“Sometimes?” She asked archly.

He smiled fondly at her, and then the smile faded, and she knew he was thinking about their mysterious guest again. For two days, he had slept in their guest bedroom, and Zoe was not happy about it. She couldn’t complain that he was eating their food; he wasn’t eating. She couldn’t complain that he was a burden; he was less trouble than an outdoor cat. He sipped water, and he rolled over. That was the extent of his activity. 

But he drew her husband into his mystery. Karan found himself wanting to check on his guest every few hours, and Zoe found herself counting every single time her husband went softly to that door and stepped in. 

Karan, for his part, felt he needed to monitor his guest’s health, and felt his head for fever often. And felt his face. And felt his neck. And felt his hands. And felt his face again. The blue eyes would open and regard him intently. He seemed to welcome the touches, and the care. When Karan felt his neck—to check his pulse, of course—Achilles rolled his head back and offered the full length of his throat. Karan was drawn to lay his full hand on that throat for a long, long moment. Then, horrified to feel something stirring deep in his gut, he retreated from the room, with Achilles blinking sleepily after him.

It seemed to Karan that something must happen soon, but he didn’t know what it was. He felt as though Achilles was waiting for something, and lay almost in a trance because there was nothing for him to do until … what?

He got his answer the morning of the third day, when the compound exploded in alarm. The servants were suddenly rushing around in terror, looking for their master.

“What is it? Is it the Saracens? Are they come? Are they attacking?”

“No, Fire! Fire! The stables! The stables!! Fire!”

Achilles awoke from his coma-like slumber blinking and confused. _Fire?_

Suddenly the lethargy was gone, and he flung back the sheets and nearly ran naked from the chamber before he halted, wavered, and then slipped on the tunic and pants the servants had left for him at the foot of the bed.

Once dressed, Achilles was through the house and out into the compound like a shot.

“Fire in the stables! Fire!” Several servants had the presence of mind to run to the well and draw up water by the bucket.

Karan appeared from the direction of a distant shed where he had been sharpening tools, and ran to the stables.

“The horses!” He shouted as he ran. “Are they all out?”

No one seemed to know, and Karan hurtled forward to rip open the doors. He plunged into the smoky interior to ensure that all the horses had gotten out. 

Achilles came upon the scene in time to see his love disappear into the burning structure. Several horses galloped out, but before their master could follow them, a full half of the roof collapsed and the flames shot up into the sky. Karan did not come out.

The hysteria amongst the servants was joined by the screams of Karan’s wife. Several of the men ventured close, but backed away again before the heat of the flames.

Without a thought, Achilles ran into the burning structure, grabbing pieces of flaming wood with his bare hands and hurling them left and right, out of his way, until he found his Hector. 

Karan was pinned beneath a heavy rafter, and the straw around him was lighting up quickly. He was conscious, and struggling, but the beam that held him was heavy, and he was clearly injured, and trapped. When he looked up to see his bedridden guest charging determinedly through the flames and smoke toward him, he was so astonished that he stopped struggling for a moment.

Achilles squatted at his side, face set in focused lines. He slid his hands under the beam and heaved it off as if it weighed little more than a saddle. Then he scooped Karan up and carried him out through the grey smoke that rolled out of the stable.

The shouts of the servants turned to cheers, but Achilles did not seem aware of them. He lay Karan in the dirt a safe distance from the fire, near the well, and placed both hands on his host’s ribs. He then tipped his head forward, long blond hair falling over his face, and seemed to simply concentrate for several moments.

Karan, lying with arms outstretched, drew in a deep breath, and then another, feeling the pain from the crushing beam fading away. 

Behind them, the empty stable collapsed in a burning heap.

Achilles finally released his host with a sigh, and rolled over to sit in the dirt, arms on his knees. He was not even out of breath.

Karan lay panting in the dirt, staring at the stable, and then at Achilles, and back.

At length, Achilles turned his head to regard his prince with a searching look.

“Who _are_ you?” Karan found himself asking.

Achilles gave him a slight smile, and turned back to watch the fire without answering.


	5. Zoe

Zoe had at first thought she did not like this Achilles. Now she knew she hated him. 

Oh, she was grateful he had saved her husband, certainly. Very grateful. She watched Karan while he slept that night, hovering, gently touching his hair. 

But it rather proved there was nothing wrong with Achilles all along, did it not? Two and a half days lying “sick” in bed and then the minute something interesting happens, he’s across the yard and throwing around heavy beams like Samson? _Malingerer,_ that was her opinion.

To add insult to injury, once the danger was over, Achilles disappeared during the chaos of the clean-up. Whilst the residents of the compound were raking through the rubble of the stables, and Karan was tracking down the horses and accounting for them, his mysterious savior was nowhere to be found.

Oh, but he was found, eventually. Back in his bed! Apparently it was _his_ bed now, because in the aftermath of the fire, Karan became adamant that this was his Guardian Angel, that they were “entertaining an angel, unawares,” who had washed up on their shore, and now lived with them.

The only positive things Zoe could say about Achilles was that he stayed out of her way, and ate very little. 

As for the negative things, he seemed to have become something of a pet to her husband. Every morning before he left to tend to his duties, he must take a plate of food to Achilles. As to why Achilles could not join them at the table, well, he didn’t want to intrude, he was very tired and low-spirited, he probably wouldn’t even eat what they brought him, but he was a guest, and it wasn’t as if they could not spare the food. They had a full _oikos_ they supported easily.

Zoe remarked—once—that a servant could take the food, but Karan looked at her with shocked hurt, as if to ask whether she wished he’d died in the fire rather than be grateful to this quiet stranger who asked for so little? So she simmered quietly while her husband went into Achilles’ room. Because it was _Achilles’_ room now.

And he stayed in there longer than she felt was strictly necessary.

When he came home for lunch, he must check on Achilles, who usually slept through lunch, but Karan just wanted to see that his angel had everything he needed. 

In the evenings, he came home, checked on his wife, checked on his angel, dined with his wife, took dinner to his angel, spent the evening with his wife… and when she went to bed, he went to see to his angel just one more time.

Yes, Zoe certainly hated Achilles. But of course, she was not the first wife to do so.

“Does our guest have everything he needs?” She asked sweetly when her husband emerged from the guest room at lunch.

“Perhaps clean sheets,” Karan advised her seriously, unaware that her sweetness was sarcasm. This was another offense of Achilles; he distracted her husband to such an extent that he seemed not as attentive to her moods as he had once been. She watched her husband leave to check on the repairs to the fences, broodingly. Then she gestured to one of the housemaids to follow her, and stalked to the guest bedroom, her thick black hair hanging loose down her back, one hand on her bulging belly.

Opening the door, she found Achilles sprawled naked, face down, the sheet only barely over the tight curve of his buttocks. His blond hair was oddly neat, as if it had been combed back from his face and over the pillow, streaming behind him like a comet’s tail.

She regarded him for a moment, wondering how it was possible to hate such a beautiful man. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her, and she could see… he hated her back. 

Suddenly, instinctively, she knew why he was here. He was here to take possession of her husband, somehow.

A wave of dizziness overcame her, and she held the frame of the door for a moment to keep from falling. Then her blood came up.

Achilles wanted Karan? Well, he’d have a fight. She’d waited for Karan, waited through his father’s illness and the bizarre dispute over the property with his brother. She’d waited until everything was settled and Karan and her father had come to an agreement, and all was in order. Now he was hers and by God, no angel was going to take him.

“My husband believes we should change the sheets of your bed,” she informed him firmly. “Why don’t you rise and come to the dining room? You can have some wine while the girl remakes your bed.”

Achilles emerged wordlessly from the bed in all his naked, golden glory. Zoe turned her back and waited, teeth gritted, feeling rotund and pregnant. The housemaid stared until she remembered that a maiden ought not to, and turned modestly away also. 

Achilles slipped the tunic on—and nothing else—and let Zoe lead him to the dining room. She could almost feel the heat that emanated from him, but his bare feet were as silent as a cat’s paws on the stone floor.

Zoe directed another servant to pour him a chalice of wine, and she served him herself, eyeing him boldly. He took it with a slight bow and walked out onto the colonnade with it. She watched him sip the wine and peruse the colonnade. Then, oddly, he looked at the pebbles at his feet and squatted to pick one up in his hand.

She retreated to his room to see if it was ready. Zoe felt certain that as soon as it was, he would disappear into it and she at least would not have to look at him. 

When she returned to the dining room, Achilles was just setting the empty chalice on the table. He held out his hand to her, fist closed, as if to give her something. Unwillingly, she held her hand out to accept it; it was a gold pebble, pure and shining.

“For your continued hospitality,” he said in his strangely formal and accented Greek. His face was blank.

Resentfully, she tried to give it back to him. “Thank you. But we are not poor. We are not in need.”

“You may need it someday,” he said meaningfully.

Intimidated, Zoe drew back from him. It occurred to her now to wonder where he had produced that gold from? She saw him pick up a pebble. Surely he couldn’t…?

But Karan had described, several times now, how Achilles had walked through fire, and it didn’t touch him. Had thrown the heavy beam off of him, had lifted him as though he weighed nothing, had put healing hands on him and took the pain away.

She might dislike the angel, but Zoe was no fool. She bowed politely and put the gold into her pocket, vowing that she would sew it into the hem of her cloak at the first opportunity. Saracens had been known to maraud the coastal cities, attacking towns, killing whomever they met, looting businesses and homes. It was not a bad idea to have a bit of gold hidden somewhere.

Achilles nodded back cordially, and with one last mutual stare of distrust, they parted. He to “his” bedroom. She to her sewing kit.


	6. Angel's Bed

Karan was conflicted. He rode along the fence, checking his men’s work, in the late afternoon, musing. His life was good, very good. He had to be grateful. After the Year of Great Difficulty, as he described the state of affairs when his father took ill, and his brother caused such legal and social complications, things had finally smoothed out. His father died, and while Karan had loved him, after so much suffering and anger, death was a release. His uncles ensured that the estate was awarded to him. His long-promised bride (and her sizable dowry) came to him. His angry brother left the village, and left them in peace.

Now he was expecting his first-born child, and to add to his blessings, God had sent an angel to protect him. There was no doubt in Karan’s mind now that the angel had been—still was—simply waiting for any disaster to come along so that he could emerge again and protect Karan. How he could deserve such a blessing, Karan did not know. He certainly considered himself unworthy and unimportant. But God was mysterious.

The complication, of course, was that Karan was developing a terribly inappropriate fascination with his angel. Even now, it was like a hunger. He was eager to finish his duties, go home, wash himself, and go to his angel’s room and touch him.

Achilles was terribly unhappy. Karan could see that. He had no idea why. Perhaps the angel was in disgrace; perhaps he had failed in a previous assignment. Or perhaps he was simply lonely. It was hard to say. 

Karan only knew that when he came into Achilles’ room, his angel was waiting sleepily for him, and stirred, turning to face him. Karan would stroke his face and hair, still telling himself he was just checking that his angel was not feverish. The blue eyes would close and the muscular arms would open, and it was as if the angel wanted to be touched everywhere. He seemed to invite it, although he never said a word unless Karan asked him something. 

Lately, Karan found himself getting bolder, running his hands down that strong neck and throat, which was always offered up immediately, and over the smooth, corded arms. Then he would recollect that his guest was now essentially his dependent, and yet his savior, and he must not press upon someone who might not be free to decline his attentions. 

Karan would offer food and drink and eventually gather up his self-control to leave the room. Achilles would watch him go with silent, sad eyes, and then roll back over to sink back into his heavy sleep. Karan would stand outside his door, biting his lips. Then he’d go make love to his wife, if she was in the mood.

But it was all very wrong, he was sure. Nevertheless, he was eager to see Achilles again tonight. Karan checked the last of the fencing, and then turned to gallop across the estate toward home. Everything he cared about was here, on this large swath of land. His father was buried here. His bride was about to bear his child here. His beloved horses were here. And now, Achilles was here. 

Sometimes Karan fantasized that it was all quite regular, and that Zoe would turn to him and say with a smile, “Oh, I am so tired tonight, why don’t you go be with Achilles instead? Surely it’s his turn to deal with your needs!” And he could go sheepishly to Achilles and say, “Zoe says you have to have me tonight,” and Achilles would grin, and open his arms and say, “Come, then.” 

Karan admitted to himself that he would be more than happy to be passed back and forth between them. But there was nothing about Zoe to suggest that she was interested in sharing him with anyone, and it was not proper anyway. They weren’t Saracens. He almost wished they were.

“Aunt Sophia says another week,” his wife reported irritably when he got home. She was swollen and miserable now, and her belly was so large she didn’t sit at the table anymore, but balanced the plate right on it and ate that way out in the twilight, on the colonnade. “Oh, how I wish it would be over.”

“Shall I rub your back?” Karan asked, but she declined, shifting uncomfortably on the reclining chair.

“And yes, before you ask, I saw that Achilles had his sheets changed,” Zoe said crossly. She didn’t mention the gold pebble.

“Did he come out of his room?”

“Yes, he came out of _his_ room, and had some wine. Then back again immediately.”

He nodded, and she could see that he was aching to go and see his pet. 

“Well, go then,” she added. When she was this miserable, company was not desirable anyway. The maidservant could rub her feet. Sometimes, female companionship was best anyway. No man understood how a pregnant woman feels.

Dismissed, Karan went quickly to his room and bathed, cleaning away the sweat and dust of the day. He always found that he wanted to be very clean when he approached Achilles. Clean everywhere. He didn’t know why. One didn’t approach a beautiful angel all sweaty and rank, that was all.

When he opened the door, the chamber was in the gloom of dusk. Not yet dark, but that hour when the sky is light enough to see by, but lighting a candle immediately makes the windows seem dark. Karan brought in food and an unlit candle, as if unconsciously admitting that he would be there still when darkness fell completely.

Achilles was curled like a great golden animal in the bed. Karan drifted to him as if hypnotized.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked, just as he would ask his wife.

“I did,” Achilles’ voice was deep and quiet. Resonant.

“I brought some grapes,” he offered, and Achilles took one and ate it quietly.

“The horses do not like their new abode,” he commented, for lack of anything better to say.

“Where are you quartering them?” The warrior asked, taking another grape.

“In the barn with the cattle until we can rebuild the stables.”

“Who is more offended, the horses or the cattle?” Achilles smiled, blinking slowly at him.

Karan smiled back, dark eyes brimming with delight. “Definitely the horses. Cows are very curious, actually. The horses are just nervous about losing status.”

Achilles smirked and stretched, and took a third grape, crunching on it to remove the last taste of sleep from his mouth.

Karan watched the muscular body stretch and move so gracefully on the white sheets. “I wish there was more I could do for you. I owe you my life, and I don’t even know who you are, or why you came to save me.”

Achilles looked at him for a long moment. Then, he glanced over at the pots of oil on the table. “There is one thing. My back itches. It’s dry. Could you…?”

The excitement that bloomed in Karan’s belly felt like a red flare in the dusk of the room. His eagerness rose to have an excuse to touch his angel’s bare skin, and over such an expanse as that thick, smooth back? Oh, bliss.

Keeping his face as calm and neutral as he could, Karan said, “Certainly,” as if this were a perfectly normal request from a naked guest to his host, and took up the pot of oil. Achilles rolled over onto his stomach, and the sheet slipped very low on his hips. Heart pounding, Karan poured the oil into his hand, rubbed his hands together, and then leaned forward and began stroking oil into his warm, waiting angel.

The silence of the room took on a slow pulse, as if the room itself were breathing slowly in and out while Achilles stretched out and closed his eyes, letting his Hector caress him, as in days gone by. The feel of his hands was always the same. Whether it was Hector or Phillip, Hermenegild or Karan, the large, strong hands always caressed in the exact same pattern, squeezing his shoulders, digging in the thumbs as he worked his way down along his spine, swooping up firmly along his ribs, and gliding slowly up to the back of his neck.

After long moments, the hands finally came to a rest holding his sides, as if his Hector had come to a point where he wished to proceed to a further frontier, but dared not. He couldn’t move forward, and he couldn’t stand to retreat, so he simply slowed to a halt and sat, breathing deeply, lips parted, hands unwilling to stop touching. 

Achilles turned his head and their eyes met. There was no point in pretending any longer that this was not what it was. He rolled over on his back and let his entire body, and its arousal, be uncovered. 

“Touch me,” he breathed, eyes half-closed.

Karan’s eyes traveled the length of him and he reached for the oil again, adding more to his hands before returning to finally accept what was being offered: the entire field was his to cultivate. His dark eyes were large and deep, and moved hungrily over the display of masculine beauty before him.

Achilles lay passive and watched his Hector place both hands on his chest and stroke up and down slowly several times before moving down to the hard muscles of his stomach. The warrior stretched out in relief when those hands finally reached his hard, aching cock and enclosed it, exploring it with hands that were calloused, yet sensitive. He spread his thighs, giving access to anything his beloved felt inclined to fondle. Hector caressed his balls, watching the blue eyes close, hearing the indrawn breath. The room was nearly dark now.

“Take your clothes off,” Achilles directed quietly.

His Hector obeyed in silence, and quickly. Then, abandoning all pretense, climbed into the bed to straddle his angel’s strong thighs, and gather their erections together in his hands. Both men watched the hands caress languidly until urgency started to build, and the caresses turned to intent strokes. Achilles put his hands over his Hector’s and they moved together with matched rhythm, and increasing speed.

Suddenly, Achilles gripped his Hector’s wrists. “Stop, wait.”

Karan’s chest was heaving and his eyes were black and glazed beneath his dark curls. He stared pleadingly down.

“Will you kiss me?” Achilles whispered longingly.

Unlike Hector, Karan did not refuse. He lay down on the hot, hard body beneath him, moved both hands to Achilles’ neck, and their lips and tongues fit together as perfectly as they always did. They filled each other’s mouths in long, deep, sliding kisses.

When they began moving again, rubbing their oiled flesh against one another with increasing speed and friction, Karan slid his arms under his angel, propped himself on his elbows, and they gazed into one another’s eyes. They rode against one another, eyes locked, until the warrior decided it was time. 

Achilles wrapped one arm around his lover’s waist and slid the other hand down between those pale, round buttock he doted on, and when his fingers touched that most sensitive flesh, his prince writhed on him, collapsed on him, and clung to him desperately. Smiling slightly, Achilles dug his fingers in and made his lover come, holding him tightly, and then came with him. Their hands gripped one another bruisingly hard, and their legs seemed almost to wrestle in combat for a convulsive moment. But even in their passion, they were carefully silent, faces pressed together tight.

At last, they went limp together, and in that moment, the warrior felt the lessening of the grief that had gripped him since Hermenegild had closed his eyes. 

“This is what I came for,” he said quietly in the beloved ear. “This is why you were waiting for me.”

Karan buried his face in the golden neck. He felt more sated and at peace than he’d ever known was possible. It was like arriving home. For long minutes, they lay silent together, pressing every inch of themselves together that they could. 

Both were drifting off to sleep when they heard the footsteps pattering in the corridors, and the voices of the servants. 

“Send for her aunt—where is my Lord? He might have gone back out—look in the barn—I thought her aunt said one more week—but you never can tell, babies come when they are ready—tell Cole to ride over to the aunt—no, take the cart to bring her back in, she may have to bring things—where is my Lord??”


	7. Childbirth

For this, Achilles left his room. Several female members of the extended family came to the house, mostly older women, cousins and aunts of the bride, and two or three from Karan’s family, and there was a great deal of activity. Aunt Sophia was clearly in charge.

Achilles and Karan sat in the dining room together, watching attentively as women entered and exited, carrying sheets and towels, carrying water and wine, and there was a general air of excitement.

The house maids were kept running, and part of their duties was to keep the expectant father and any supportive male friends—in which category Achilles had been immediately classified—well supplied with wine.

It was only in the early morning hours that the mood of the household shifted from excitement to concern. Apparently there was some issue. The walls were thick, but even so, they could hear Zoe cry out from time to time. Then the cries came more regularly, and were rather terrible. The aunts stopped coming with updates, and the women began speaking more quietly and urgently. Then the housemaids started bringing sheets out, and they were bloody. 

Karan, who had been speaking warmly of having a son, and naming him Obelius, for his father, but calling him Leo, grew silent and serious. He fell to staring at the table, his hands gripping the wood.

“This is my fault,” he said at last. “I was… I should have been with her. We should have gotten her aunt and the women right away.”

“This is just how it is when women give birth,” Achilles said, as if he knew anything of the matter. Well, he’d _heard,_ certainly.

Karan continued contemplating the tabletop in that wide-eyed way that was so Hector. “She didn’t want to marry me, you know,” he said at last, quietly. “She wanted to marry my brother.”

One of the aunts heard that last remark, and bustled over. She was an older lady with a very large lower half. “Now that is nonsense, don’t say that, Karan. Zoe loves you very much…” and she caressed his shoulders affectionately for a moment. Then it appeared that the old lady might cry. She put her hand to her mouth and returned to the marital chamber where the voices had taken on a wailing tone. And Zoe screamed several times.

At last there was a feeble cry, and Achilles and his Hector both stood alertly. One of the aunts eventually emerged with a tiny baby, pale and wrinkled, and not looking very clean. Karan hovered over it in wonder. Achilles stayed well back.

“It’s a boy,” the aunt assured him, but she did not look joyous. The child looked very weak. “But listen, Karan, we must find a wet nurse. Zoe is not … doing very well.”

Dazed, he looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

They were joined by Aunt Sophia. “The bleeding won’t stop,” she informed him bluntly. Her hair was disheveled and there were traces of blood on her robes. “I’ve seen this before. I am doing what I can, but it is in God’s hands.”

Karan stood with his hand to his mouth. “May I see her?” He finally asked, eyes pained.

“No, no… it is not a good idea for a man to be in there… let us keep trying… she would not want you to see her this way…”

Karan sank back into his chair and put his face in his hands. The women looked at each other and down at the baby. From their faces, they weren’t certain the child would survive either. 

Achilles noticed that Zoe was not screaming anymore. 

_Just like Hector and Hermenegild,_ Achilles thought, _he has a wife and child, and he loses them._ Philip and Victor, however… his brow creased and then smoothed again. Then his thoughts turned down more selfish lanes. He had been lying in his lonely bed for days, aching because his new Hector had a wife, and could not belong solely to Achilles. Now, it seemed, he would. All Achilles had to do was stand back, say nothing, let nature take its course. Karan would be his.

He looked at his Hector sitting at the table, face in his hands, already guilt-stricken. He had looked so happy just hours ago. How Achilles used to tinker with the lethe, and argue with fate, trying to produce a happy Hector. Now he’d found one and the rub was, he was happy without Achilles. Now he was about to be made miserable… but he would belong to Achilles again, certainly.

Finally, Achilles sighed, and told himself he was probably a fool. “Let me see Zoe,” he said quietly to Aunt Sophia.

“Oh, that is out of the question, entirely improper,” she sputtered.

Achilles nodded politely, and then went past her and toward the door behind which the battle had raged all night. Sophia was trotting along behind him, frantically whispering words of outrage. He threw open the door and entered the candlelit room, unprepared for the sight of the bloody-handed women, their sleeves pushed up to their elbows, and chaos everywhere. Zoe, naked from the waist down, looked like a casualty straight from the beaches of Troy. She was pale and barely conscious, her long black hair streaming over the pillows, tangled and damp. Her collapsed belly was smeared with blood and more blood yet was soaking the white towels they’d packed between her legs.

There was a collective gasp from the women at the sight of him. 

Achilles hesitated. He didn’t want to do this in front of anyone, particularly if it turned out that his powers were insufficient.

“Out! I’m an angel.” He decided upon, and waved his arms at them in the time-honored chicken-shooing manner. “It’s alright, I’m an angel, out-out-out.”

“I’ve never heard of any such thing—“ Aunt Sophia was working her way up to full bluster.

“Sleep,” Achilles instructed, grabbing her head, and caught her as she fell. “Here. Take her and get out or I’ll put you all to sleep. Go. Now. Go.” He handed the limp woman to two of her co-madres and returned to shooing. “Go. Out.”

Finally, there was peace. Achilles went gingerly to the bed, stepping around the piles of blood soaked towels. He was amazed to find her still alive, albeit barely conscious. She looked up at him, panting, sweat-soaked, ghastly pale.

“I’m going to try,” he told her bluntly. “I don’t know. I’ll try.”

Then, wincing at the gruesome nature of the task, he removed the towel and put his hand between her thighs, pressed on the tender flesh carefully. He could feel the blood leaking out over his fingers. Somehow, this was more gory than anything he had ever encountered. Women’s soft flesh and bloody lacerations were not things that went together in his mind. But there was no time for contemplation. Zoe’s head lolled on the pillow. Her eyes were fading.

Achilles closed his own eyes and concentrated. _Heal. Heal. For Karan’s sake. Heal._ Then on her lower belly, he pressed in all the healing he could. Finally, his face more disturbed than when he’d tortured the Bishop to death, he rolled her over and slid his fingers there, too, where she had torn. _Heal. Heal._

It was the warrior’s first up close experience with childbirth. He certainly hoped it was the last.

When Achilles was finished, he rolled Zoe back onto her bloody sheets, turned away with a shudder, and washed his hands in the basin near the fireplace. The weak figure on the bed turned her head and watched him in silence. When he returned to her side, toweling his hands, she gazed up at him with exhausted intensity. Her black brows and eyes were the only color in her white face.

“You did that for him, not me.” She said faintly.

“Yes,” Achilles agreed shortly.

She closed her eyes and went to sleep. Achilles gave her one last look of mingled pity and dislike, and left the room, still drying his hands on the towel. When he opened the door, he was not surprised to find a cluster of ladies bristling like hens at him.

“I think she’ll live.” He said, and passed through the crowd. They streamed back in after him, and he felt that letting them clean up the mess was a perfectly fair division of labor.

Karan was face down at the table. The oldest aunt was holding the baby sadly. Achilles looked over at it; he had forgotten the child completely.

“Is it dead?” He asked.

The aunt pulled the blanket away from the tiny face. “No,” she said, but there was a _not yet_ tone to her voice.

Achilles put his hands to the child and concentrated on health and vitality, but realizing that he did not know what was wrong with it, he didn’t know what sorts of energy to send it. After a moment, he withdrew. In some situations, nature did indeed have the final say. They would have to wait and see.


	8. The Brother

A week passed. The first two days, the extended family tip-toed around Zoe and the baby as if the deciding factor would be the noise level. But by the third day, it was obvious that both were improving, and Zoe, certainly, would recover. The child, well, it was less certain for a while, and there was much talk of God’s will. 

But as the days went on, and the child grew more pink and squirmed more, and fed more, the household relaxed gradually and finally considered it safe to congratulate, and celebrate, and speak of Little Leo’s future.

Achilles’ place in the household became a matter of some uncertainty. The women were a bit peeved to have had their authority upended, and no woman forgets the man who shooed her like a chicken. Moreover, after discussing the matter with each other extensively, they determined that Zoe was responding to the age-old treatments women had always applied when Achilles interrupted them. Of course, they agreed, he’d done no _harm_ … he probably prayed over her. But it was Aunt Sophie who pulled her through. No doubt of that at all.

Neither Achilles nor Zoe said a word to dismantle this budding narrative. Indeed, they avoided eye contact.

But each woman knew, no matter what they agreed to in-group, that Zoe had been dying, and then Achilles had done … something … and now she was recovering. None of them would give him credit for a thing in public. However, had the men of the family decreed that it was time for Karan’s guest to leave, there would have been feminine murmurs of unease about the wisdom of dislodging what… might be an angel. Word had come that Saracens had sacked another village not far south from here. Would we turn away a Guardian Angel when the Saracens were afoot?

As for Karan, he was in a welter of relief and joy. He had a son! His wife was fine. He had no knowledge of Achilles’ intervention in the matter, and no one felt the need to inform him, least of all the angel himself. Achilles was perfectly happy for the women to have decided that his influence had been negligible, for later it occurred to him that if he got the reputation as the Childbirth Angel in this village, his life would become a misery. He gave an unaccustomed shiver at the thought.

Now, at least, Achilles had sure and certain knowledge of his Hector’s continued desire for him. That soothed him somewhat, and seeing his beloved happy, his brows not set at their usual worried slant, that was something at least. His Hector had not returned to his angel’s bed. His guilt was rather too much for him just now. But the one night had restored a bit of the warrior’s vitality. Achilles found he had the energy now to leave his bed, and wander about the compound. 

Cole, the servant, was an unexpected source of diversion. “Sir,” he greeted Achilles, who gave him a friendly nod in return.

Unexpectedly, the fellow approached in what could almost be called a sidle.

“The master’s a bit too busy to ride out right now,” Cole said to Achilles rather suggestively as he strolled about near the site where the remains of the burned stable were finally cleared away, although the earth was still black and scarred.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Achilles gamely replied.

“Wouldn’t mind if you did, sir,” Cole answered, clearly relieved.

Thus it was that Achilles found himself mounting a horse in readiness to take over some duties on Karan’s estate. Just as Cole mounted as well, and they turned their restless horses away from the house, Dru came running from the gate toward the house, and Cole pulled up a moment to watch.

“Now what’s happening,” the servant murmured.

“What?” Achilles asked.

“That brainless boy went to the village with the basket and comes running back without it? Something has happened.” Cole rode over and intercepted the boy before he got to the house. They exchanged words, and then Cole shook his head in disgust, and returned to Achilles.

“Alright. I’ll show you the path we take.” He took off at a canter, and Achilles followed, knowing that once they were alone and well into a companionable routine, he’d extract any knowledge worth having.

Being a good servant, Cole maintained a decorous silence for nearly 20 whole minutes. When they reached a verdant pasture and dismounted to walk along the fence, Achilles had the pleasure of teasing out the family gossip.

“Karan’s a lucky man,” Achilles began.

“Oh yes, sir. Well… in the end I suppose he is.”

“In the end?”

“Well, there was all that business two years ago, I’m sure he’s told you about it.”

“About Zoe?” Achilles guessed.

“Oh well, yes, she was involved too. I mean… yes, she was part of it.”

Achilles pondered what he knew of the patterns of his Hector’s life. “Oh, you mean the business about his father.”

Cole looked coy. 

“And his brother,” Achilles fished a little, remembering Paris.

Cole sucked in his breath between his teeth and shook his head. “That’s a bad business. And it’s not over.”

“No?”

Cole nodded wisely. “Well, sir. You saw Dru run up just now. Guess who has rowed back to the village and is ready to start in again?”

“The brother?” Achilles guessed. 

“Mm-hmm,” Cole agreed. “Thought that was over, but now here he is again. Apparently he has some new information and wants to renew his claim all over again.”

“His claim?” Achilles asked, watching the sheep graze as they walked along. Neither of them was being terribly attentive about the fencing. Cole was clearly bursting to canvas the latest development.

“To the estate! He says he’s the rightful heir.” 

_Ah,_ Achilles thought. He had been wondering just what was the nature of the danger he was meant to protect his Hector from. A burning stable did not seem quite on the same level as the armies of Agamemnon, or Caracalla, or Odoacer. Perhaps this brother was a threat.

“Is he violent?” Achilles decided to get right to the heart of it.

“Well, it’s gotten ugly a few times, yes,” Cole told him seriously, picking a reed to chew on. “Xander has a temper. He’s a Saracen when he’s angry. And he’s usually angry.”

“Xander, eh? And why does this Xander think he has a claim?” Achilles was already feeling a bit aggressive toward this brother who threatened Karan’s tenuous and clearly hard-earned happiness.

“He says he’s the elder brother, not Karan! But everyone knows Karan is the elder. Well, most people agree. His aunt says it’s even recorded in the family Bible, Karan was born first.”

Now Achilles was puzzled. How could there be a dispute about something as simple as that?

Cole looked at him. “Oh, you don’t know, sir? They’re twins. Xander and Karan, identical twins.”

Achilles stopped in his tracks, stricken, and cold sweat broke out all over his arms and back.

“Twins?” He managed, scowling in confusion.

“Just about impossible to tell apart … until they open their mouths, then they’re as different as night and day. And they’ve been fighting over this estate since before their father died.”

Achilles sat down in the grass. Then he lay down in the grass. Two Hectors. There were two Hectors. This time, there were two Hectors. He had two Hectors. 

And they hated each other. 

He stared at the sky. Two Hectors. Then he closed his eyes. It seemed, abruptly, like time for a nap.


	9. Xander

When they returned to the compound, Cole took the reins immediately. “You go rest, sir. I’ll take care of the horses. You don’t look well.”

Achilles smiled wanly and slid off the horse. He felt very unsettled. 

Once inside the house, he could see that _unsettled_ was the theme of the day. Most of the aunts had returned to their own homes now, but the two who remained to help the new mother were busy enough for six. They bustled.

An uncle had now materialized, with grey hair and an impressive moustache, and was consulting with Karan in the courtyard as they awaited the arrival of Xander, who was apparently on the road to the estate. 

“Don’t even let him in,” the uncle was adamant. “Once you’ve let him in, he has rights. He could burrow in like a tick and drive you out. Don’t let him in the gate. Meet him outside if you have to.”

Karan was shaking his head in distress, “He’s my brother! I don’t want to treat him like that!”

“You’d better think how he treated you two years ago, when he came back.”

“He was upset. He didn’t seem to know—“

“How could he not know?” The uncle seemed exasperated. “I tell you, do not let him inside. Send your angel to deal with him!”

They both looked over at Achilles, who had gone blank as he always did when he was in over his head.

An odd look came over Karan’s face, troubled and a touch wary. “No, I don’t want to send him,” he mused almost to himself.

“I wouldn’t go alone,” the uncle said warningly.

“He’s coming!!” They could hear Dru shriek across the yard. The boy had apparently clambered up and was sitting on the wall around the compound, watching the road.

Karan drew himself up, rubbed his face, and then gave his head a rotation, as if preparing himself for battle. His eyes looked despondent, and the worry had returned to his brow. Then he squared his shoulders and walked steadily to the gate. 

Achilles followed him. He had to. Another Hector was coming, and the warrior simply had no template in his head for this. He feared he would actually vomit. Blue eyes wide, he accompanied his Hector to the gate. 

Karan paused. “You don’t have to come. This is not your problem.”

“Oh, it is. More than you can know,” Achilles muttered.

Karan looked disturbed. He turned and put his hand on Achilles’ chest and looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“What do you mean?”

Dru scrambled down and backed away a few steps. His eyes were huge. He pointed silently at the gate and stared at them. Apparently, Xander had arrived.

With the look of a man facing a mortal enemy, Karan opened the gate just wide enough to slip out. Achilles followed him instantly, and Karan gave him a pleading look with his dark eyes, as if to say, _why did you do that?_ Then he shook his head and closed the gate.

Achilles had already turned to see—yes, Hector. Dressed like a poor fisherman, hair a bit longer and wilder than his brother’s. He was on foot, in ragged sandals tied with broken strings. He strode toward them, head forward.

“Oh yes, here he comes, close the gate,” he said bitingly. “I see you brought reinforcements.” He looked Achilles up and down, and then returned his angry gaze to his brother.

Achilles stood trembling, for the first time in his life that he could remember. That one angry rake with the black eyes had made his heart speed up.

Karan stood his ground. “Zoe just had a baby. I don’t want us fighting in there in front of her.”

“Yes, I heard, congratulations!” Xander snapped. “My bride had your baby, let there be joy.”

“You must let this go,” Karan said, eyes full of anxiety.

“Accept life as a humble fisherman while my younger brother takes my inheritance. This seems like a reasonable course for a man to take?” Xander looked ready to charge, although his voice remained steady.

Karan brandished a finger. “It didn’t have to be that way. I would have welcomed you—“

“—as a guest in my own home.”

“Oh, this seemed like a home to you? All the years you lived in Ithaca, this was still home?”

“You say that like I had a choice!”

“I would have shared this land with you—“

“No, you would have owned this land and I would have been on suffrage my entire life, and by the way, were you going to share Zoe as well? Should we ask her about that?”

“Don’t talk about my wife!”

“Well, she certainly is your wife NOW!”

Achilles couldn’t move. He stood as a wide-eyed spectator to the most mind-melting scene he could have ever imagined. His Hectors were almost nose-to-nose and he was paralyzed.

“If any other man had done this to me, I would kill him,” Xander said flatly, shoulders back.

“Well, what’s stopping you?” Karan had finally accessed some anger of his own. His chin was up.

Xander paused. “I think you honestly believe that you are the oldest.”

“I am!” Karan shouted. “I wouldn’t stand against you if I weren’t, do you think—“ his finger came back into play, “—do you think for even a moment that I would take what is not rightfully mine?”

Xander spread his hands. “Oh, so if I could prove my claim, you would relinquish yours?”

“Yes! Yes, I would, because that is the right thing to do, and it’s what you should do—“

“You’d give up all this—“

“I would!”

“And Zoe?”

Silence. The two stared at each other in panting silence for a moment. Then Karan spoke more quietly.

“Would you take her from me, if you could?” He gestured back at the house behind them. “She just had my baby, would you take her? Or would you let her go, knowing her dowry goes with her?”

“The dowry is now part of the estate.” Xander informed him immediately.

“Oh, so you’d want to keep her too.”

“Would you take her _without_ the dowry? Are you finally in love with her now?” Xander asked bitterly.

Karan hesitated, blinked, and looked over at Achilles, who was still watching in utter paralysis.

Xander looked too. “What?” 

Then he looked again. A slow smile came over his face. “Oh… oh I see,” he walked over close to Achilles, looking him up and down rudely, and then walked around behind him, very close. “Yes, I definitely see,” he said very quietly.

Achilles felt the hairs on his arms raise. He could not move.

Karan looked as though Achilles was about to be snatched from him. “What do you want, exactly, today?” He managed, suddenly quiet.

Xander came back around, and Achilles felt like the air had moved against his skin. The twins eyed each other.

“There is an item in the library that I want.” Xander finally said. “Let me in. Let me take it. It’s my proof.”

Karan shook his head. “I can’t let you in. Tell me what it is, and I’ll bring it to you.”

Xander wrinkled his brow. “Oh yes, of course you would. You’d hand it right over so I could prove my claim.”

“I would. You act as though I have no honor—“

“If you were me, would you risk it? Would you trust me?”

“Yes, I would!”

“You trust me??”

“Yes!”

“Then let me in.”

Karan fell back a step, face a study of frustration and uncertainty.

Xander nodded, the lines around his nose deepening as Hector’s did when he was feeling defensive. “I thought so. You trust me exactly as much as I trust you.”

The men stared at each other for another long moment.

Suddenly, Xander turned away. “I’ll be back, and I won’t be alone. If you won’t let me retrieve the one piece of my own property that I need, I’ll take other measures.”

“Just tell me what it is!” Karan pleaded.

Xander tipped his head and gave him an ominous smile. Then he turned with clenched fists and marched away, disappearing down the road, and around the bend beneath the shade trees.


	10. Pillow Talk

Achilles was shaking with confused tension once it was over. Karan looked at him.

“You’re more upset about this than I am,” he noted. “Come, let’s go back inside.”

Karan put his hand on Achilles shoulder, and the heat of it was like a lifeline. Achilles drew in his breath, and Karan looked puzzled. “You’re cold.” 

Achilles couldn’t speak. Karan walked with him back to the house, and once inside, poured them both a bit of wine. “Here,” he said.

Achilles drank it all in one go, to Karan’s lifted brows. “I’m going to go lay down,” he said. Then he gave his Hector—his kind Hector—a serious look. “When you can…?”

Karan nodded. “Yes, I’ll come soon,” he said quietly.

Achilles crawled into his bed and shivered. This situation was more complex than his mindset could quite manage. Never until this moment had he realized how straightforward his existence had been. _Find Hector. Save Hector. Keep Hector. Love Hector._ It wasn’t a complicated recipe. 

And the patterns?? What had happened to his patterns? He had hated those patterns, but now that they seemed to have fractured, he felt he’d like them back. _Give me an invading king, please,_ he thought, dazed. _Bring on the Saracens._

The question gradually forming in his mind was, which Hector was his? He was almost certain he couldn’t have them both. Was one a false Hector? What if they fought? What if—here his eyes grew wide—what if he had to hurt one (he couldn’t even think _kill_ ) to save the other? 

As for which Hector was most Hector-like, well. He shook his head even trying to think on it. They both were, as far as he could see. Karan was sweet and loving, like Victor. Xander was dry, defensive, and already reminded him of Philip and Hermenegild. They both were sides of Hector. Achilles loved them all, every side of Hector there was, he loved. 

He pulled the blankets over himself, wondering why he couldn’t get warm.

At last, in late afternoon, Karan came to him.

“Zoe and the baby are sleeping, and my aunts have settled in the courtyard with a cask of my finest,” he smiled, and sat on the bed at Achilles side.

Achilles looked at him, the way his braid lay between his strong, full shoulders, the black lashes over his deep eyes, that full, triangular pout of his lower lip. 

“I can’t get warm,” he said.

Karan smiled and slid out of his garments, and joined his angel under the covers. 

“Shall I warm you?” He asked, and rolled over on top of the warrior.

Achilles sighed with relief at the heated weight, the nakedness, and the scent of his Hector. That was another thing that always stayed the same, the spicy scent of his own beloved Hector. He wrapped his arms around his love and ran his hands slowly up and down the smooth back, and into the soft curls.

His Hector put his face close to Achilles and nuzzled him. They inhaled one another, feeling the slow hardening of burgeoning desire as their flesh was pressed between them. Karan wound his fingers in the blond locks and pulled until Achilles yielded up his throat, eyes closed, lips parting. He lay passive, letting his beloved feast on his bared neck with lips, and tongue, and then teeth. The room was quiet but for the faint sounds of rustling sheets, and suckling kisses.

Karan came up from his warm burrow in his angel’s throat, and reached for the oil. He slicked up his lover’s hard cock, and then his own, and then looked down at his lover.

“Spread your thighs,” he whispered.

Achilles complied, wondering.

Karan put his hand under his lover’s balls and stroked in and up. “Can I put it here?” He breathed.

Achilles nodded, watching his beloved position himself, and then lay back down, his belly pressing with satisfying weight on the warrior’s erection, trapping it between them.

“Now close your thighs, tight,” Karan whispered.

Achilles squeezed, biting his own lip as he watched his lover shiver with pleasure and begin thrusting slowly. Then he smiled. “You like it?” He arched his back so that Karan could wrap his arms around the warrior’s waist. 

They moved together, Achilles cradling the dark head on his shoulder, watching his beloved’s back and buttocks move as he thrust into the hot juncture, teasing the skin under his balls with the sliding firmness of his cock. His own hard member was not getting much friction, but he didn’t want to come yet. He wanted to hold his Hector and be ridden, and revel in the erotic motions. His love was clinging to him, utterly engrossed in him, lips hungry on his neck, hips rotating sensuously against him. Achilles bucked gently under him, giving him he ride he wanted, eyes gloating at how lost his lover was in his own angel.

_But you’ll come when I tell you to,_ he thought, and sped up his undulations. He dug his fingers in his Hector’s luxuriant curls with one hand, and gripped the back of his neck tightly with the other.

“Come now,” he growled, tightening his thighs, and Karan moaned and thrust wildly.

Achilles pulled his hair harder, holding him punishingly by the neck. “Now!” He ordered.

Karan convulsed and came, the muscles in his shoulders bunching beautifully under Achilles’ gaze, while his hot seed shot from his cock and into the slick crevice he plunged into.

“Oh my God, my God,” Karan breathed into Achilles’ neck.

His god smiled. “Yes,” he whispered, loosening his grip and stroking any lingering pain away. 

Karan lay limp for several minutes, panting in satisfaction on the smooth, strong body beneath him. Finally he returned to himself, and felt the hard cock still hot between them. He rolled over and Achilles handed him the oil. 

“Do me,” he said, and Karan poured a bit more oil on the straining flesh, and took it in his hand.

“Tight,” Achilles breathed, gazing into his eyes. “Tight, and fast.”

Karan smiled, and went tight and slow. 

Achilles gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. His head fell back on the pillow and he choked his groans in his throat while Karan stroked him, gradually going faster until finally his angel was arched on the bed, mouth open, hair streaming on the pillow, arms spread wide. He was beautiful, and powerful, and coming in his prince’s hand.

In the aftermath, they lay wrapped around each other in the quiet room. It was nearing sundown, and in the far reaches of the home, servants were beginning their evening duties. Dinner was being prepared. The aunts were finishing their gossip in the courtyard, and probably a fair amount of their nephew’s wine. Zoe was undoubtedly nursing the baby. The field hands would be rounding up the sheep to guide them home. The cows gathered by the barn of their own accord. 

Achilles held his Hector and thought, _This could all have been mine. I could have let Zoe and the baby die, and been his consolation. Instead, now I have consented to be a secret again._ He didn’t regret it, exactly, if it made Karan happy. But he marveled at it.

And of course, now there was this other element. Xander. Achilles thought of him, staring at him with the eyes of hostile Hector, defiant Hector.

“What piece of evidence is it, do you think, that he wants?” He asked suddenly in the quiet of the room.

Karan shook his head slightly on the pillow. “It’s in the library, he said, so it must be a book.”

“Why does he think he’s the oldest?” Achilles wondered, toying absently with a dark curl.

“He says our mother told him before she died, but it was years ago.”

“But he only brought the claim two years ago?”

“He didn’t know where we were.”

Achilles shifted slightly to peer at him. “How is that possible?” 

Karan gazed back at him. “Xander and I didn’t grow up together, you know. My mother left my father when we were small, taking Xander with her, and leaving me behind.”

Achilles absorbed this. “Do you know why?”

Karan shrugged slightly. “My father had gone off on some journey for a long time, I know that. He was gone for… oh… almost a year. When he came home, she was angry with him for being gone. Or maybe for what he was doing while he was gone,” he added with a smile.

“She waited till he came back, and then left?” Achilles asked.

“I’m sure there was more to it than that. I was just a toddler. But yes, she left, and took Xander with her.”

“You remember this?”

“A bit. At the time, everyone said that it was because my father agreed to let her leave, as long as he could keep his firstborn. It was a very bitter separation, apparently.”

Suddenly, Achilles could see it all, and in dread. A bitter, angry woman leaves her husband on the condition that she give up her first born son? Oh, he could see it very easily: she took her other son and, purely as revenge, she turned him into the instrument of it. All it would take was a suggestion: _Really, it’s you!_

Achilles lay quiet in the bed, holding Karan and thinking of what Xander’s life might have been like with such a resentful mother. No wonder he was so bitter.

Now, what in Hades was Achilles supposed to do about it?


	11. The Mother

Achilles strapped the belt over his tunic, and ensured the tunic was hanging smoothly over his trousers. In his belt, he had a knife, not for dealing with Xander, but anyone else who might decide to become involved. He allowed Karan to slide a cloak over his shoulders and fasten it affectionately for him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Karan insisted, turning to stroke the horse’s neck, as if he wasn’t going to step away let Achilles ride out of the compound.

Cole, also mounted, waited to ride with him.

Achilles mounted the horse and looked down at his love. Suddenly, he remembered Hector gazing up at him just this way, when he and Priam were preparing to gallop out to spy on the Greeks. How young and resentful Achilles had been then! Angry that Hector would plead for his father, but not for himself. Angry that Hector cared about anyone except himself, and Achilles. That was the world he’d wanted then, a Hector who would be his alone, on an island made just for himself and his love, together in a timeless bubble forever.

It was… how many lifetimes ago? How old was Achilles’ soul now?

He gazed down at Karan, whose eyes were every bit as large and deep, whose cheekbones and jawline were every bit as unique and beautiful as they had ever been. Deep down, Achilles admitted, he’d still be happy to whisk his love back to his mother’s island and spend the rest of time tying him up and licking honey off of him. But if he wanted to see his love happy, he must let him live in this world, with all its chaos and drama. His Hector thrived on it.

“I don’t want him coming back here with an army of thugs to terrorize the servants, and you. And Zoe,” he added politely.

“Do you think he would?” Karan asked doubtfully.

Achilles shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s the sort of thing a man might do. Let me talk to him. Let me see if I can discover which book it is that he wants.”

“He won’t trust you,” his Hector predicted.

“He might. You do. Don’t you?” Achilles smiled.

Karan nodded, and finally stepped back. As his angel rode to the gate, accompanied by his foreman, he stared after them. _Don’t fall in love with Xander,_ he pleaded mentally, not knowing, of course, that Achilles was already in love with them both.

The gate closed behind them.

It was only a half-hour to the public section of the waterfront, just beyond the last cobbled street of the village center. By description, Xander’s boat would be easy to find. It was merely a large, one-man fishing boat, but with a small cabin built into it where a man could get shade out on the ocean, and some storage. 

It was the name, however, that assured Achilles and Cole that they’d found the right boat for certain: BIRTHRIGHT was painted on the side, in white. The warrior grimaced when he saw it. _These emotional humans,_ he found himself thinking, for the first time. As if he were not one of them.

Achilles and Cole dismounted and approached the boat. No one seemed to be aboard.

“Two against one, I see,” said a familiar voice behind him on the pier. They turned.

Xander was there, a fishing net shuttle and gauge in his hand, head tipped combatively. The breeze off of the sea brushed his curls back from his eyes. His long hair was not secured, and curled wildly around his neck and shoulders. His clothes were poor and stained. His feet were bare. He was beautiful, and Achilles’ heart cracked in two. One half for each brother.

“And armed, too, of course,” Xander gestured to the knife in Achilles’ belt. “A quick stab to the guts, and into the water, right? Problem solved.” His lips tightened. “The unwanted one gone.”

Achilles and Cole looked at each other. “Wait for me with the horses. “ Achilles said. “And here,” he gave the servant his knife. “I’ll be fine.”

Cole gave Xander a long look, as if he was afraid a fisherman could kill an angel with a net shuttle. Then, shaking his head slightly, he left the two of them alone on the pier.

Achilles and Xander stood facing each other, oblivious to the fishermen and merchants in the area. Xander waited for a moment, and then stepped up very close, looking down from his slightly greater height. Achilles held still, as if the other were an animal whom one must let sniff until it was satisfied there was no threat.

Xander reached out and took a fold of Achilles’ tunic and felt it with his finger and thumb.

“Nice weave. Expensive. Soft against the skin.” Then he gave the warrior a meaningful look and stepped around him, to his boat.

Achilles inhaled, and turned to follow him to the boat. Xander stepped off the pier and lowered himself in.

“So if you aren’t here to kill me or beat me, I suppose it’s just going to be persuasion at this point. Perhaps a small bribe?” He stood in his boat, looking up at Achilles.

“No,” Achilles began, and Xander tossed his tools onto the pile of net.

“Not even a bribe? Well. I would say Karan is cheap, but since it’s my money he’d be offering, I guess I’m glad.”

He kept those large, bitter eyes on Achilles.

The warrior gave a small, unwilling smile. Xander was not going to be easy about anything.

“May I come aboard?”

“Certainly. Happy to have you. You’re the only thing my brother has that shouldn’t belong to me, so by all means. Come aboard my boat.” He bit out that last bit.

Achilles stepped aboard and found a box to sit on. Xander sat on another and pulled a portion of net onto his lap, removed a roll of twine from a nearby bag, and began mending the net. Achilles watched his hands maneuver the shuttle and gauge expertly, weaving a patch into the torn gridwork of netting.

“How long have you been doing this?” Achilles asked.

“Since my mother’s money ran out when I was 15.” Xander answered shortly, concentrating on his task.

“She didn’t ask your father for more?”

Xander shot him a look from those piercing black eyes. “Obviously not.”

“It’s not obvious.” Achilles said challengingly. “She could have asked and been denied.”

“Can you swim?” Xander asked him, looking up again.

Achilles couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. Hostile Hector was a piquant flavor.

“Why are you here?” Xander asked.

“First, to ask if you will tell me what book it is you want. I will take it from the library myself and bring it to you. You have my word.”

“The word of my brother’s secret lover.” He nodded at the net. “Well.”

Achilles sighed. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

“How about a very large bribe, then? Not from Karan. From me.”

Xander dropped the net and leaned slowly back, resting his shoulders against the gunwale.

“My brother’s _wealthy_ secret lover. He really got it all, didn’t he? Wife. Home. Land. Livestock. Family. Patron.” Xander nodded again. “The Chosen One.”

Achilles tried a different approach. “Were you and Zoe in love?”

Xander’s shoulders sagged a bit, and he looked away, not as if he were offended, but as if he were gathering his thoughts. Finally, he said, “We had a certain mutual attraction. But she felt that… she deserved a firstborn as her husband. She didn’t want to lower herself.”

“I see.” He didn’t see at all, but Achilles decided to keep that to himself. They sat in silence on the gently swaying boat for a moment. “Alright,” Achilles decided. He removed a bag from inside his tunic where he’d tucked it away before leaving his room. Karan knew nothing about it.

Opening the bag, Achilles let spill out a pile of gold pebbles onto a rag that lay on the deck of the boat. He estimated it was about the equivalent of Karan’s inheritance. “Here. It’s yours. Take it.”

Xander’s face went slack. His eyes went from the gold to Achilles, and back. His breathing seemed to speed up. He bit his lips.

“Take it and go, you mean,” he finally said.

“No,” Achilles denied stoutly. “No. Take it and stay. Buy every boat along the waterfront if you want. Buy a villa in the center of town. Become a man of means, put down roots here.”

“With your money,” Xander clarified. His brows were lowering.

“It’s yours,” Achilles said, dropping the bag. He stood and prepared to leave. “It’s yours now.”

Xander’s face, already distrustful, grew positively stormy. “I don’t want it. Take it with you.”

Exasperated, Achilles turned back. “Why??”

Xander was still seated, but his entire body radiated tension. “My whole family thinks I’m mad, you know. They pity and hate me. I’m alone.” He sat forward. “Even if I get that book from the library, I’ll have to have someone to read it to me, because my mother didn’t teach me to read. By the time I realized it might be important, I was working. I ran in the streets as a child. I wasn’t educated, I wasn’t trained with a sword, I wasn’t even shod most of the time.” The words started spilling out faster.

“When I found out I was actually a gentleman’s son, my first thought was to find my father and find my people. It took years. When I finally found them, they treated me like a by-blow, like the bastard son of a maid, and I looked like one. I spoke like one.” 

He gestured in the direction of the estate. “Karan is beloved, cultivated, educated, he is the best of what we are. I’m what’s left over. No amount of gold—“ he pointed at the pile, “—can make them see me as anything different. I have to prove that I am the oldest son, and that I deserve their consideration and respect. All that pile of gold tells me is how utterly unwanted and despised I am!”

Achilles was awestruck. That was the longest speech his Hector had ever given. It had obviously piled up and festered inside of him all of his life. He wanted to fall to his knees before Xander and put his hands on those wild curls, and see if he could use his healing powers to take away the pain in his mind, but he doubted it would work. 

Behind him was the happiest of Hectors: one who had not yet lost anything. Before him was the unhappiest, one who had never had anything to lose.

Achilles rubbed his brow and returned to sit on the box. He scooped the gold up and put it back in the bag. Then he tossed the bag aside. He still intended his Hector to have it, but perhaps it was better for it not to be gleaming in the sun just now, if it only added to Xander’s sense of injustice.

“How do you know you’re the oldest?” He finally said. “The family all seems certain it’s Karan. Your Aunt Sophia says it’s even written in the family Bible. Karan.”

Xander nodded. “I know.”

“So?”

Xander looked at him for a long moment, as if gauging whether to trust him. Finally he said, “I remember being one of two, you know. I remember him. My brother. I remember us being together. And I remember my mother taking me away. She took me to her room, and she—I had a long braid—she cut it off, and she said, _You’re Xander now._ And when we left, I remember my father holding me, and looking at me, and then letting me go. I didn’t understand at the time, but now I do. Karan is the firstborn. I am Karan. HE is Xander.”


	12. Herodotus

The following day found Achilles in Karan’s library. It wasn’t as impressive as the one he and Hermenegild had bought with the villa in Gades, but it was more than what some people had. The books that were there were leather covered and gold-edged, well-bound. Greek and Latin. Homer, Achilles smirked to see, Ovid, Virgil, Jerome’s translations…

Karan came in behind him, and with a glance at the door to see that it was closed, and they were alone, he buried his face in the blond hair, and ran his fingers up and down Achilles’ arms, sending pleasant shivers down them. After a deep inhale of his angel’s hair, Karan stepped back again.

“Did he say which book it was?”

“He didn’t know the title, he just said it was bound by a ribbon,” Achilles answered, his eyes running over the ridges of the bindings.

“How would he know that?” Karan wondered.

“It’s what she told him, apparently. That it was something bound by a ribbon. When he came here two years ago, he didn’t know what it was. But now he realizes, it must have been a book.”

“How does he know that now?”

Achilles shrugged. Xander had told him, but he didn’t want to say. There was something keenly painful about his face when he said: _She said it was bound by a ribbon, but I would never understand. It took me years to realize she meant it was a book. I would never understand, because I can’t read. Her idea of a riddle._

Why a mother would do this to her son, Achilles could not say. Punishing the father by tormenting his firstborn was all he could think of.

They hunted for a while longer. Presently, Karan said, “But what will it prove? The Family Bible still says I am the first born, how will some other book negate that?”

Achilles had not repeated what Xander had told him. He was not authorized to do so. Thus, he simply shook his head. “I don’t know for certain. But if it will make him feel better, I think you must find this book and give it to him.”

Silence reigned a bit longer. Finally, Karan said, “This one has a ribbon,” and carefully plucked down a large, dusty volume from the top shelf. 

“She hid it well, hm?” Achilles said drily. “Do you remember your mother?”

Karan shook his head. “Not really. She was very tall. Or I was very short.” He smiled at Achilles, and then looked down at the volume in his hands. “Herodotus.” He fingered the ribbon, but did not dislodge it. If he did, Xander would be certain that evidence had been removed.

“Do you want to take it to him, or shall I?” Asked Achilles. 

Karan hesitated. Confrontations with Xander were not his favorite pastime. But sending his lover to visit his twin seemed like something no sensible person would do.

But he shouldn’t have a lover, should he? His wife was nursing his child right now. She’d nearly died having him. And he was dallying with Achilles. His mind rebelled against the word _dallying,_ however. He might try to be strict with himself, but in his angel’s arms he knew more peace and bliss than he’d ever experienced. But that was sexual, wasn’t it? _How do you feel when you hold your little son in your arms, and know that as his father, you will be the world to him?_

He inhaled deeply, and handed the tome to Achilles. He could not control events. He could not control Achilles nor Xander, and God knew he could not control himself.

“You take it to him. Take it and tell him…” he came to a halt. He didn’t know what to tell Xander, given that almost every remark seemed to hit him as a slight whether it was intended to or not. “Tell him… he is still my brother.”

Achilles nodded, understanding the difficulty. Any olive branch, as the Christians would say, was seen by Xander either as pity, or as not sincere if it wasn’t followed by an immediate relinquishing of the estate, followed by fulsome apologies.

The door to the library opened, and Zoe entered, carrying the child. Her large eyes fastened on the book immediately.

“Is that what he wanted?” She asked warily.

“Yes. God knows what he thinks it will do for him,” Karan answered, taking the baby from her arms. “Oh, he needs changed. I’ll take him to your aunt.”

Zoe watched him go. “He’ll shovel horse manure by the mound, but…”

Achilles smiled, and then he and Zoe both realized that they were alone together, and tensed up. The temperature in the room dropped a bit. Yet neither of them left. It seemed there was at least some information each wanted from the other.

Zoe began. She turned her long nose in his direction, and fastened her large eyes on him, and fired first.

“So. Achilles. I have been wondering. Did you save my life only to take my husband?”

His eyes widened at her directness, but he could certainly equal it. “I can’t take him away from here; he wouldn’t be happy. Do you love Xander?” He shot back.

She looked away for a moment, pensively, and then returned to him. “Define love.” 

Achilles scoffed and took a few steps away from her.

Zoe rolled her eyes and then tried to explain. “I only met him two times. He appeared when his father was dying, and was driven away… but I met him in the village. He knew who I was… we spoke at length… I could tell that we…” her voice stopped and her lips closed, as if she did not want to share any descriptions of those budding feelings that were then clipped.

“If Xander had been awarded the estate, would you have married him?”

“Yes.”

“Happily?” He asked pointedly.

“Yes.”

“Do you love Karan?”

“Yes.”

Achilles regarded her in astonishment, but she stared him down.

“Don’t tell me you can’t understand how one could love them both.” She said.

That hit a bit close to home. Achilles put the book in the leather purse he’d brought, brooding.

“But you can’t have them both,” he finally told her.

“Neither can you,” she said immediately, her eyes lighting up with a fire of their own. Those black brows of hers were rather threatening.

Achilles regarded her stonily. “I have a claim you know nothing about.”

“So do I,” she said instantly. “I gave Karan a child; can you do that?”

He glowered. “And if it weren’t for me, you’d have died doing it.”

“Is there nothing you’d die for?” She asked back immediately. 

Achilles actually took a step back from her, chills going down his arms. Women were not supposed to have such weapons at their disposal. Zoe was a bit more than he wanted to deal with.

They regarded one another for a moment longer.

“Well, take heart.” She said. “Perhaps I’ll die with the next one.” Her eyes were burning with resentment. 

Achilles rolled his shoulders in acute discomfort. Women were unfathomable. Even his own mother was rather frightening sometimes. They gave each other one more baleful look, and then he went to the door. He’d be going to Xander on foot. There was no safe place to stable one of Karan’s horses at the waterfront. 

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He said.

It was the moment for a snide comment, but Zoe forbore. He had, after all, saved her life, and she wasn’t the sort to dismiss it. She watched in silence as Achilles left the library.


	13. Argia

Xander counted the coins he’d received in payment for his last catch, and then deposited them carefully in his purse. At the market, he bought a flagon of beer. He drank a few mouthfuls, and used a splash of it to wash the smell of fish from his hands. The beer left its own scent, but it was better than fish.

When he returned to the docks, still carrying the beer, and trod down his pier, he looked up to see Karan’s lover waiting for him. His steps slowed. Xander was not entirely resolved upon how he felt about his brother’s lover.

For one thing, the fellow was very smooth, Xander felt. There was enough of the rough in him to take note of the oiled golden skin, the soft, lotioned blond hair, the expensive and well-made garments. Oh, and the bag of gold, mustn’t forget that.

But the strong form was not that of a city gentleman. His hands weren’t calloused like Xander’s own, and even his twin Karan had the hard hands of a man who worked. This fellow… not at all.

Yet, his very movements were those of some feral animal, and the strength was evident in the sheer control he exerted. No movement was the result of mere momentum or gravity. He controlled his every muscle. 

His eyes, also, were truly strange. Intense, yet flat. There was a stillness about him that made Xander think of the lizards that bathed in the sun without moving. Legend had it, they were very old. 

The story had reached him that Karan’s stables (his stables, he corrected himself) had burned down, and his brother had been in them. But an angel with long blond hair had walked through the flames and extracted him. Of course, angels weren’t known for having love affairs with mortals. Or carrying bags of gold pebbles around.

So no, Xander didn’t know what he made of Karan’s lover.

What he did know was that when he stepped onto the dock, looked up, and saw the creature waiting for him, those blue eyes fixed on him, his heart rate sped up, and he knew… the afternoon had just gotten more interesting.

“The honor is repeated,” Xander observed, looking the lover up and down. 

“Would you like to see the back?” The fellow offered, clearly amused.

“Perhaps later. Have you come to retrieve your gold? It’s right there where you left it,” Xander gestured with the half-empty flagon.

They stood for a moment by the boat.

“No,” the other finally said, a touch wearily, it seemed.

“Do you have a name?” Xander asked. “We haven’t been formally introduced. Because usually family does that, and I have none.”

He passed the fellow and stepped down into his boat, turning to sit on his usual box.

“Achilles,” the blond told him, eyes intent upon him.

“Well. What can I refuse to do for you today, Achilles?” Xander asked, eyes bright with challenge.

Achilles opened the leather pouch that hung from a strap around his neck and shoulder. “I brought your book.”

Xander sat forward immediately and put down the beer. The faint sneer left his face and his eyes grew large.

“Come onto the boat—no leave it in the pouch till you’re on the boat. If it goes in the water, my hopes go with it.”

Achilles stepped onto the boat and glanced around. “Is there no better place we can go—“

“This is where I sleep at night.” Xander blazed out immediately, black eyes wide and burning. “This is what I have. This is what you and my brother think I should be content with, and if I can sleep in that cabin and piss over the edge of this boat year after year, you can sit on that box long enough to hand over that book!”

Achilles lifted both hands in surrender, thinking that Xander and Zoe would have killed each other, had they married. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said with exaggerated courtesy, and sat on the box.

He removed the book and handed it to Xander, who immediately checked that the ribbon wrapped around it both horizontally and vertically had not been disturbed. His hands caressed it carefully, and then he lowered his face and touched his forehead to it reverently. 

When he straightened again, his deep eyes were moist with emotion.

“This… this will prove that I am not just some mad, abandoned, jealous creature trying to enter a world I don’t deserve.” Xander said quietly. “I am someone. I belong somewhere.”

Achilles watched him with an ache in his chest. “Surely your family would have taken you back if you had simply presented yourself and asked for the rights of a younger brother.”

“Maybe,” Xander said, still caressing the book. “But I’m not the younger brother.”

Achilles rolled his eyes a bit. His Hector, always. Once he got something in his brain; be in _Protect the Kingdom_ or _Copy the Scrolls_ or _Don’t Sign the Declaration_ … that was it.

The memory that he had once had a brain full of _Become a Legend_ did not return to disturb his superior musings.

“So, do you know what book it is?” Achilles finally asked.

“I wouldn’t have confessed I cannot read if I’d known you’d use it to taunt me.” Xander snapped immediately.

Achilles scoffed in disbelief. “It was just a question!”

Xander glared at him. “No. No I do not know what book it is. I’m sure you do.”

Achilles leaned back, narrowing his eyes. He was getting a bit tired of trying to be kind to this human cactus.

“I do.”

Xander waited.

Achilles examined his nails, scowled, and picked at one of them.

“What book is it?” Xander finally asked as calmly as he could.

“Hm?” Achilles looked up innocently.

His Hector simmered at him, hunched over the book, brows straight and low over those dark eyes.

“Oh, that book?”

Xander breathed through his nose slowly.

“Herodotus,” Achilles finally told him, wishing they were somewhere private, clean, and comfortable instead of swaying in a small boat with nets and ropes at their feet.

There was no clearing of the uncertainty on Xander’s face. 

“It’s just a list of historical stories,” Achilles told him. Hermenegild had rather liked Herodotus, and Achilles had at one point hunted through the pages, looking for his lost Hector of 300BC.

Xander took a knife from his belt and cut the ribbon, unwound it, and opened the book very carefully. “Greek stories?” His eyes moved over the words with unease, unable to decipher them at all.

“Greek, Persian, Egyptian, Anatolian, Lydian…”

“And you can read this?” Xander asked.

Achilles nodded. 

Xander opened to a random page and handed it carefully to Achilles. “Read,” he said softly, dark eyes on the book.

With a quirk of his eyebrows, Achilles took the book, squinted and read. 

_—Coming in, he told his only son, a boy of about thirteen years of age, to go to Astyages' palace and do whatever the king commanded, and in his great joy he told his wife everything that had happened. But when Harpagus' son came, Astyages cut his throat and tore him limb from limb, roasted some of the flesh and boiled some, and kept it ready after he had prepared it. So when the hour for dinner came and the rest of the guests and Harpagus were present, Astyages and the others were served dishes of lamb's meat, but Harpagus that of his own son—_

“Stop,” Xander said.

Achilles looked up and saw he was pale, and his knuckle was to his lips. He closed the book.

“Well.” Xander said darkly after a moment. “I see why my mother liked this book.”

Achilles put the book down gently on the bag of gold, which lay, just as Xander had said, untouched where he’d tossed it.

“Why did she cut off your braid?” Achilles asked.

“It must have been one of the ways they distinguished between us,” Xander said, eyes distant.

“But wouldn’t your father be suspicious if he suddenly had two short haired sons?”

Xander shook his head. “I don’t know. He was gone for a long time, and then he came back, maybe she let both of us grow our hair long while he was gone and then cut only mine.”

Achilles nodded. “Are you sure you remember this? It isn’t just something she told you later?”

Xander straightened up immediately. “I remember it!” He said sternly, glaring at Achilles. “Why are you so involved in our lives?” He suddenly asked. “You’re wealthy enough to buy Karan an estate of his own, why does he have to have mine? Why do YOU want him to have mine?”

Achilles shrugged uncomfortably. “He’s worked it and lived on it his whole life. He knows every rock. He loves it. He ran into those burning stables because he loves the horses and wanted to save them.”

Xander was staring down at the net tangled at his feet. “And I am just some interloper, some stranger—“ 

“If you had come as the younger brother, you’d have been welcomed, I am sure.”

“I’m not sure.” Xander straightened his back as if it ached. “No provision had been made for me. Would he have wanted to share? And would I have lived there with him and Zoe? Imagine that.”

Then he gave Achilles an acute look. “Oh, but you do live there with him and Zoe, don’t you? Maybe they are more flexible than I imagined. Perhaps I should move in and the four of us will just be one big happy family,” he finished mockingly.

Achilles looked at Xander, imagining the damage he could do every time he opened his mouth.

“No,” he admitted. “But look, suppose we find proof that what you say is true. What happens next? You turn Karan and Zoe out, with the baby? Where do they go?”

Xander pointed at the bag of gold. “They can have that. I don’t want it.”

Achilles felt a stir of anger. “You are truly impossible, aren’t you? And do you think the aunts and uncles and cousins would love you then? After doing that?”

“They would have to acknowledge that I am the firstborn and that they have wronged me. And they all colluded to wrong me! When I appeared, they encouraged my father not to see me, not to accept me. They used their influence with him because … do you know why? They simply loved Karan better. They knew him, and they loved him, and I was a stranger in ragged clothes.”

“Yes, I know,” Achilles said, and sighed. “Will nothing else placate you? Is there nothing else you can be given that will give you peace, and let Karan remain where he is, in the life he has built?”

“Give me the book,” Xander directed, eyes stony. 

Achilles shook his head, and handed him the book.

Xander opened it and began flipping through the pages silently. They sat together on the rocking boat, and Achilles watched his angry Hector, head bowed over the book he could not read, long black hair curling over his shoulders, long beautiful legs sprawled over the tangled fishing nets. 

Achilles folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the gunwale. Sooner or later, some solution would occur to him, he was sure. For now, he found himself unwilling to leave his lonely, bitter Hector to return to his loving, affectionate Hector. That Hector at least had Zoe and the baby, and a comfortable home. This one had nothing.

Achilles had just begun to doze off, lulled by the rocking boat, when Xander made a noise like a huff, as if the air had left his chest suddenly. He blinked himself alert and sat forward again. 

“What is it?”

Xander sat with the book open in his hands, staring down at it. Achilles leaned over and looked. Pressed flat between the pages was a long, black braid, baby fine, and tied at the end with a bit of ribbon. 

Carefully, Achilles reached for the book. Xander snatched the braid as if he thought Achilles would take it, but he let the warrior take the book.

“What does it say on this page?” He demanded, his eyes wide, his brows curving up in that anxious way he had.

Achilles looked. Parts of it were smudged, but he read what he could:

_…Aristodemus himself. He at that time reined, and was son of Aristomachus, grandson of Cleodaeus, and great grandson of Hyllus. His wife Argia… Her husband, to whom she brought twins, died by some disease almost as soon as he had seen them. The Lacedaemonians of that day, after consulting together, elected for their prince the eldest of these children as their law required. They were still at a loss as the infants so much resembled each other. In this perplexity they applied to the mother. She also professed herself unable to decide. Her ignorance however was only pretended… a Messenian, whose name was Panites, advised them to take notice which child the mother washed and fed first: if she was constant in making a distinction, they might reasonably conclude they had discovered what they wished… the Spartans followed the advice of the Messenian and carefully watched the mother of the children of Aristodemus. Perceiving her, who was totally unconscious of their design, regularly preferring her firstborn, both in washing it and feeding it, they respected this silent testimony of the mother…_

Someone had underlined that last section.


	14. Preparations

The family of Obelius decided to come together at noon the next day in the house of Karan’s uncle to deal with the development, and discuss _this silent testimony of the mother._ Xander was cordially invited, and Achilles took the invitation to him on his boat in the morning.

Xander nodded knowingly, tossing a handful of rags into his cabin. “They don’t want to let me onto the estate, so they hold the meeting elsewhere. I know how they are.”

“Will you come?” Achilles asked from the dock.

“Oh ho, I’ll come.” Xander held up the book of Herodotus, with the lock of hair inside, wrapped up again with the ribbon. “With this, I will come. You be there, too,” he pointed at Achilles, dark eyes determined. “You are my witness. Or will you change the story to protect your Karan?”

Achilles eyed him sternly. “I will not lie,” he said, thinking _because I have been punished for every single lie I told you during the year of lethe._

“When will they meet?” Xander asked, clearly torn between hope and fear of hope.

“Noon, so … do you have a place you can bathe and groom yourself? Some clothes to change into?”

Immediate offense. “No. No, I do not! This is the fate they left me to.” Xander gestured to himself grandly. “This is how I should show up, as they have left me.”

“I will find you lodgings where you can bathe, and we’ll find you some clothes,” Achilles began. “You’re not going back there like this.” His patience was wearing thin.

“I don’t want your money.” Xander said immediately.

“You can pay me back!” Achilles nearly roared at him. Then he grabbed the edge of the boat threateningly. “Or I can tip you, all your gear, and that cursed book into the sea right now.”

Xander gave a snort. “You can’t tip this boat,” he said provokingly.

Achilles’ eyes grew a little pale. He released the boat, undid his cloak, and tossed it aside. Then he stood on the edge of the dock, grabbed the gunwale again with both hands, and started lifting.

Xander’s eyes widened as his boat turned slowly on its side. His balance became precarious and the gear at the bottom of his boat began sliding toward him. He clutched the book in one hand and the edge of the little cabin with the other. “Yes, alright! Alright! Stop, stop, stop, I’ll do as you say!”

Achilles let the boat down and then pushed the gunwale down further, causing everything in it to slide the other way. “Will you?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Xander lost his balance and fell to his knees, still clutching his book. “I will do as you say, I will do as you say!” His dark eyes were wide and pleading now.

“Oh, who is this?” Achilles asked, lifting the side up again. “Is this Humble Xander? I like Humble Xander!”

“Stop, stop, please,” Xander curled up on the bottom of the boat, holding the book to his chest. “This is all I have, please!”

Finally, the warrior relented and let the boat sink back to its natural level. Xander lay in it, looking distrustfully up at him, his tunic riding up on his long thighs. Achilles admired the view for a moment, and then turned away.

“Let’s go.” Achilles picked up his cloak. “Bring the gold, bring the book, leave the anger and defiance, and let’s go.”

Xander gathered up the gold and the book, and exited the boat, keeping a wary eye on Achilles. He didn’t want to cross in front of him, but instead gestured for him to walk down the dock first.

“What are you afraid of?” Achilles asked, staring him in the eye. “Are you afraid I will pick you up in my arms and throw you and that book right into the water if you are anything other than completely cooperative?” 

Xander lowered his head like a bull and got the look in his eye that Achilles normally adored. 

Achilles dropped the cloak again warningly. 

“No, no,” Xander held the book to his chest again. “Please, no. I’m sorry.”

“And you’ll do as I say?” Achilles was getting a gleam in his eye that anyone could read.

Xander hesitated again, and Achilles swooped forward and grabbed him up in his arms. His victim went stiff as a board and let out a hoarse cry.

Achilles looked around to see several other fishermen in their boats watching with grinning interest. “Throw him!” One called.

“You’ll do as I say?”

“Yes,” Xander said, and closed his eyes. His lips were pursed into a thin line. 

Achilles placed him back on his feet and snatched up his cloak. “Follow me and don’t talk.”

Achilles found a widow with rooms to let and a wardrobe full of her late husband’s robes. She was more than happy to accommodate them, and Achilles found himself acting as valet to the most difficult Hector he’d encountered yet. Now that Xander felt himself to be safe, and he’d apparently hidden the book somewhere in the room, his natural personality reasserted itself. 

He didn’t want oils in his hair. He didn’t want his hair combed after it was washed, either, because it hurt. 

It hurt, Achilles explained, because there were no oils in his hair, and they argued about this for some time.

Xander scorned to appear before his rejecting family looking as though he was desperate for their acceptance and approval.

“But you are!” Achilles reminded him, and finally dumped the oil on his head as he sat in the bath, and rubbed it in with savage abandon.

When Xander emerged from the tub, naked and resentful, Achilles hurled the towel at him and went picking through the robes the widow had sold them. Xander rejected them one after the other.

This one was too red; he wasn’t the Pope.  
This one was too white; he wasn’t Jesus!  
This one was too blue; he wasn’t a public servant.  
…He didn’t like green.

Achilles pulled out a set of gray robes that were the color his eyes were turning. Xander decided they would be acceptable over white.

But he didn’t want to wear another man’s sandals.  
He was not going to wear another man’s sandals.  
He didn’t care if they were nearly new, they were another man’s sandals.  
He’d wear his own sandals.  
Where were his own sandals?  
What had Achilles done with his own sandals?!  
Then he’d go barefoot!

And he didn’t want his hair braided.  
He didn’t like his hair braided, it reminded him of his mother.

“I thought you didn’t want to look like Jesus,” Achilles finally said quietly, breathing through his nose with great concentration.

At last they were ready, and Achilles led Xander out to the horses.

Xander did not know how to ride a horse, did Achilles think he’d had that kind of upbringing, had Achilles forgotten that his mother let him run the streets, and his father’s family had _utterly rejected him?_

“Just sit on it, then.” Achilles said, eyes dangerously wide. “I will lead it. Just sit on it.”

When they finally got to the uncle’s compound, Achilles’ head was thumping inside. 

“Come down, we’ll walk in,” he said, and was mildly surprised when Xander didn’t find a way to argue with that. But he seemed to have a moment of distress, not being sure how to slide off a horse in robes while holding a large book.

Achilles reached for the book so Xander would have his hands free. “I’ll hold the book. I’ll hold the book. Just for a moment. Just for—give me that book or I vow I will come up there after you!”

Xander managed to disembark the horse without injury and immediately took the book back. Achilles followed him, exhausted, and when Xander suddenly stopped, the warrior almost ran into him.

“What?”

Xander stood silently, stiff, head up, book clutched to his chest so tightly his knuckles were white. Achilles regarded him for a moment, and then realized: he was afraid. This was the family he’d dreamed of as a child, only to have them reject him when he finally found them. Now he was prepared to storm the barricades, alone, armed with nothing but a lock of hair, a cryptic bit of verse, and a faint memory.

“Whatever happens, I am here with you,” Achilles said.

Xander turned and gave him a bitter glance. “You love Karan,” he said. “Everyone loves Karan,” he added under his breath.

Achilles heaved a sigh. Not the first that day. “Alright. Let’s go.”


	15. Family

Within the uncle’s compound—Jorges was his name—the family had gathered. The men were sitting at the long table. The women hovered behind them, standing in groups of two or three so they could comment to each other throughout the proceedings. Looking around, Achilles recognized several of the women who had attended Zoe’s delivery of little Leo. 

Karan was at the table, and he stood when Xander entered. The assembled family all shifted in surprise to see Xander looking not at all like the ragged, homeless, near-beggar they had seen before, but a well-dressed gentleman with his hair smoothed and groomed, and escorted in by the Guardian Angel. There was a great deal of murmuring.

When Karan approached and they faced each other, Achilles stood nearby, nervous as a new mother that his twins might lunge at each other. But they merely regarded one another for a long moment. The sight made Achilles suddenly wish the world were full of Hectors, that every man at the table was a Hector, that there was nothing but Hectors everywhere as far as the eye could see. And he would fall down and cry with relief, if it were so.

The murmuring faded to a waiting silence. Many sets of eyes went back and forth between the two handsome young men, and many minds quietly acknowledged that there was no telling them apart, visually. 

Finally Xander said, “Is there a seat at this table for me, or am I expected to stand with the women? Perhaps I could make myself useful in the kitchen?!”

A chuckle went around the table, as Achilles rubbed his brow and thought, _but the minute he opens his mouth…_

“There is a seat,” Karan said, and gestured to an empty seat on the other side of Uncle Jorges.

Xander sat stiffly, accusing eyes touching upon every man at the table briefly. Achilles sank back to stand with the women. This was one time he was more than happy to. 

Aunt Sophie, next to him, gave him a chary glance.

“You put me to sleep,” she whispered to him.

“You licked my forehead,” he whispered back. 

She scowled, and then unwillingly smirked and gave a silent chuckle through her nose.

At the table, Xander placed the book before him, and opened it carefully to the page about the mother and her twins. Then he lifted up the soft, child’s braid. Exclamations and whistles erupted around the table. Uncle Jorges took the book and read aloud the last section, ending with the pointedly underlined clause.

More consultation. The women were shrugging and displaying their hands to one another. Several nodded.

Jorges lifted his hand to silence them, and said, “Now tell us what you remember.”

Xander recounted the story of the braid, and there was much more murmuring.

“Your mother was always a strange woman,” one of the uncles said to Karan. “Not one of us. Not a local woman. Your father picked her up on his travels—no disrespect, I don’t mean to say she was fallen or godless—but we knew nothing of her, or her family. She was a strange, angry woman.”

By the way the men at the table glanced at Xander and then each other, and by the way the women’s heads came together behind them, Achilles could tell that the general consensus was that Xander was his mother’s boy, utterly.

“But still,” Jorges said, taking a deep breath, “it does appear that there is every chance that you are indeed the eldest.”

Karan lowered his wide eyes to look at the table.

A young cousin, near their age, leaned toward him. “Do you remember anything, Karan?”

Karan shook his head. 

An older man, who had been silent till now, spoke up in sonorous tones. “Even if Xander is the eldest, he is too late.”

All the heads turned toward him. “By Roman law, Karan has had the property for two years, and paid the taxes, and worked the land. By Roman law, it’s his regardless. Unless he gives it up willingly, the land remains with Karan. You have no legal option.”

Achilles could see even from behind him that Xander had begun to shake.

Uncle Jorges saw it too, and laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You are family.” He assured him. “You are family now, we see you are family now, and we will find some remuneration for you. But we acknowledge you as family, yes?” He turned to the others at the table. “Yes?”

Heads started nodding. “Yes, yes. You are family. You are family.” The uncle on his other side gave his hand a squeeze.

Now the murmuring exploded into full scale cacophony, as everyone turned to the nearest person and began expostulating on what a wild and unexpected development this had been, and how it was to be put right, and what they now remembered of events, and what the mother had been like, and how they had not been the ones who pressured Obelius to shun the ragged stranger who appeared when he was sick and dying, but one could understand, at the time, how it had seemed to be the best course, under the circumstances. But now, of course, something must be done, and really, how do such things happen in this world, and was it not fascinating, however, this family drama? 

Xander’s eyes were large, and his lips compressed, and his shaking increased. He was clearly torn between anguish that the lost birthright might never be restored, hope at these initial overtures of acceptance and welcome, gratitude, and resentment and self-disgust for feeling that gratitude. Achilles was worried he was going to go to pieces right there before them.

Karan was also in quandary. The land was his, apparently, safely his, but… he was not the firstborn? He was not Karan? Was it right for him to keep it? But what could he do otherwise? And Zoe, and the baby, how to provide for them if he did the right thing and relinquished his deed…?

Achilles watched both of his Hectors sit tensely at the table, trying to come to grips with their new reality. He shook his head slightly. This was a mess.

Suddenly, a commotion in the courtyard overrode the commotion at the table.

“A runner! A runner from the council!” One of the servants announced breathlessly, and a dusty fellow entered the room quickly.

“Sails in formation have been spotted. The Saracens have found us.”

Now the men were on their feet, and if Achilles had thought a large family could be loud before, he was enlightened.

The runner lifted his hands. “All able-bodied men—“ he called out over the din, “all able-bodied men report to the waterfront, bring every weapon you can. Land-owners should stay to protect their property, but everyone else to the waterfront. If we can fend them off at the waterfront, the rest of the village has a chance. I have to continue on and notify others. Arm up! Saracens are pirates; they take what they can and burn the rest.”

The dispersal of Greeks intent upon self-preservation was immediate and efficient. Karan was out the door and on his way back to his compound, and Zoe and the baby. Outside the door, he hesitated and turned to Xander. “Come?”

Xander followed, and Achilles followed the two of them. When they reached the compound, the servants had clearly already heard the word. Cole was marshaling them to the shed, where various scythes and gardening tools were being repurposed with grim determination. 

Achilles joined Karan in the dining room where he watched his Hector open a little-noticed cabinet and draw out several swords. He handed one to Achilles, and one to Xander.

“You weren’t trained in fighting,” Achilles began.

“I grew up in the street. I know which end to hold,” Xander told him.

Achilles smiled despite himself. Karan handed him another sword, which was somewhat smaller than the others. He looked at it in puzzlement.

“That’s mine,” said a youth behind him. He turned to see an unfamiliar figure in tunic and trousers with white cloth wrapped tightly around the head like a turban.

It took him a moment to realize it was Zoe. Achilles was appalled. “You can’t be fighting, and dressed like that! If the Saracens get this far, they’ll think you’re a man and kill you.”

“What do you think they will do to me if they know I’m a woman?” Zoe asked, and took the sword from him. She stepped away and gave a few quick swings with it, and he could see she had at least had some training.

Blinking, he returned to Karan, who was handing out the last of the weapons.

“To the gate,” Karan directed, and they streamed out. At the gate, they took up a loose formation. 

Achilles climbed up the perch that the boy Dru favored, and walked along the top of the wall, as he had done at the abbey in days of old. He intended to be the first to greet any Saracens coming up the road. His sword was in his hand, and murder was in his eye.


	16. Battle

Now, they waited. Most of them stared at the gate, but Xander was looking around him at the compound: the estate he would have had. His eyes went over the whitewashed house; it was barely familiar from his babyhood. He gazed at the well, the burnt spot where the stables had been, the out-buildings and the pastures beyond. The trees were large and spreading, near the wall. He gave it all a long, last look, swallowing hard.

Then he looked at his brother, who knew every inch of it, and knew when to plow and harvest, and when to breed the stock, and how to care for it. He knew none of these things. 

“I’m going to go down and fight with the men at the waterfront,” he said to Karan quietly, and went to the gate.

“What? No! No, your place is here now.” Karan assured him.

Xander gave a faint laugh. Then he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Thank you. But my place was never here. Still, perhaps I will return.” He embraced his brother. “Good bye.” He said simply, and went to the gate, pulled it open, and walked out.

Achilles, having patrolled down around the corner to eye the road in both directions, was burning with resolution. The patterns had returned, he supposed. Here comes disaster. Here comes a force ready to destroy his Hector’s life. Here is the tiny world he will try to protect. _How will I get them both out of here if it falls? And is it not sure to fall? Doesn’t it always fall? And Zoe and the baby, did I save them only to see them slaughtered? Why does it always end this way??_

Remembering how he had arrived, Achilles was suddenly struck with the idea for an escape plan: through the estate, down the path to the beach where he had first washed up. Xander’s boat, could Xander’s boat be brought around to take them all away?

He turned and stalked back along the wall, scanning once more to see that no enemy approached, then he jumped down and glanced around. He saw Karan near the gate and went to him. 

“Where is Xander? I have an idea.”

Karan gave him a worried look, eyes expressive. “He went to fight at the waterfront.”

“WHAT??” Achilles exploded, and then turned in a full circle twice, in sheer panic. “When??”

“Several minutes ago. I tried to stop him, but—he must make his own decisions,” Karan said grimly.

Achilles stood horror-stricken. Should he stay and protect Karan and the estate, or should he go and protect Xander at the waterfront? He was absolutely certain that whichever twin he abandoned would die. 

He could see it in his mind, he and Xander in the fishing boat, watching Rhamnus burn, knowing what was happening to Karan and his family. Or, alternately, he dragging a struggling, wounded Karan away, leaving the others... because if he told Karan, _I know how this ends, grab Zoe and the baby and come,_ he’d be met with absolute refusal. Leave the extended family? Leave the servants to be slaughtered? Leave the land? He could no more get Karan to leave than any of the previous Hectors, unless he did it by force.

The warrior paced the courtyard with agitation. He could not decide what to do. The wisest thing seemed to stay with Karan, protect him and all the things that made him happy. And Xander… How perverse of him to go toward his doom! Could he even fight?? 

Achilles sheathed his sword and pulled at his own hair. Xander was the obvious sacrifice: an angry man with nothing to lose and defenses so high, he probably could not be made happy. 

And yet, Xander had been sacrificed all his life. Achilles was in an agony of indecision. He could not choose between them. This was too much for his mind.

Suddenly, the urge to go to the fighting came over him. To lose himself in violence, and let his mind vanish in a haze of bloodlust, that was the escape. Perhaps they both would die. Perhaps they all would die. Perhaps _he_ would finally die. He felt as if he were going mad. His vision was red. It was difficult to see. His head was bursting with violence.

Karan watched his angel in trepidation. His pacing sped up, his face was turning red, his eyes were turning white, and he looked like a demon. Then he let out a roar that frightened the servants. They scattered away from him as he turned toward the gate.

Achilles ran to the wall, vaulted back up onto it, and then went over, hair streaming behind him. He landed like a cat on the other side and took off running down the road toward the waterfront, his powerful legs churning beneath him with preternatural speed. 

If he passed Xander on the way, he didn’t see. The road was full of Greeks with weapons, coming grimly to fight at the waterfront. He passed them all like a wild thing, unaware of how the sight made their blood race, made them speed up themselves and grip their weapons more fiercely and follow him with stronger spirit. He didn’t see anything but the rage at this tyrannical cycle, this wheel that turned over and over, ripping his Hector’s world apart with every rotation.

He reached the waterfront to see the landing of the first of the Saracens. The fleet was not on the level of Agamemnon’s army, nor even Odoacer’s, but six black-hulled ships carrying two dozen Saracens each were enough to destroy a Greek village with no standing army. 

Achilles ran to the beach where the large but motley assortment of stalwart men had gathered with what weapons they could find to defend their village. Passing them, he waded into the water with his sword in his hand. When the first wave of black-clad Saracens, yelling and waving their curved swords, disembarked, they were met with a single blond warrior who slashed with such speed and fury, he took out half of them instantly. They sank beneath the foaming water and died.

But Achilles was still only one man. Around him, those he could not reach jumped from their decks and streamed up the beach, howling their war-cries, and were met by the desperate but determined Greeks who charged at them swinging whatever they could find.

It was a melee. No one was in charge on either side. There were no battle lines, no commanders on horsebacks shouting out orders, no archers shooting arrows to curve gracefully over the defense to sink into the offense. There was only a mob fighting on the beach, with men falling to the ground and dying as their blood soaked into the sand. There, they were trampled by the desperate feet of those who still struggled and hacked at one another.

When Achilles ran out of Saracens to kill, he realized that the ship he’d met was emptied of warriors, and the assault had moved inland. 

Turning, he waded out of the water and charged up the beach, taking out invaders with lightning strike sweeps of his sword. He paused to assess the situation. The Greeks were actually holding the line at the first cobbled street that marked the end of the waterfront and the beginning of the business district.

Achilles plowed ahead, still slashing, and joined the fighting up at the street, slicing the invaders as they broke through the line of defense. He picked up a dropped sword and now used both hands to slash patterns of steel into the faces of the intruders, releasing fountains of blood that rose into the sky, peaked, and fell again like red rain.

The screams were deafening, and it was music to Achilles. How long had it been since he had let his true nature show, and just killed, and killed, and killed? With a roar of pleasure, he sped up his attacks, slashing Saracens to wet ribbons, and darting pale-eyed and hungry to the next cluster to vent his rage upon them. The stones beneath their feet were red and slippery now. 

And then suddenly, it seemed that there was no one left standing to attack. Achilles blinked and turned his head this way and that, his blood soaked hair flying out around him. The Saracens were retreating. All around him, enraged Greeks were screaming defiance and charging after them, hacking them down as they ran for their ships.

Achilles let out a yell of savage glee and joined the chase. Overtaking several of the black-clad pirates, he speared one with his sword and hefted the body over his head with a triumphant roar. The very sight galvanized the villagers. Even the women were running toward the beach with knives and meat cleavers, and now it seemed that someone had gotten the idea to set one of the Saracen’s ships on fire. 

The sea was red with foamy blood, and black with desperate invaders struggling to get back to their ships. On the beach, Greeks were hacking to death the wounded, and Achilles watched with approval. 

He turned to see a Greek in red robes and a knife in each hand fighting two Saracens. He moved like a street-fighter, using hands and feet, headbutts and elbows. Achilles watched him rip open one Saracen’s throat, and then kill the other with a knife through the eyeball and into the skull. When that one fell, the red-robed man stomped on his throat for good measure.

Then the fighter turned toward Achilles, paused and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

Achilles blinked the blood from his eyes and realized it was Xander. His robes were red because they were soaked in blood. But he was standing firmly, a bloody knife in each hand, and a look of fierce satisfaction on his blood-smeared face. 

“Look,” he said.

Achilles turned back to see the first Saracen ship was pulling away from the beach as behind them, as the villagers screamed in defiance and triumph.

They’d won.

Achilles and Xander turned to stare, dazzled, at the scene on the beach. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Two ships now were burning and sinking just off-shore. Three were pulling away. The retreating invaders were wading and splashing frantically toward the last ship to make their escape. 

Xander put his knives in his belt and hit Achilles lightly on the arm. “Come,” he said, and ran toward the fishing boats. Achilles followed him, and when they reached Xander’s boat, his Hector yanked the line from the mooring and leapt in. “Come on, come on!” He shouted. Achilles vaulted into the boat and watched as Xander grabbed the oars.

“What are we doing?” Achilles asked, but he was pretty sure he knew.

“We’re going to take that last ship.” Xander said hotly, pulling at the oars.

“You and me?” Achilles asked, eyebrows raised.

“Mostly you, but yes.” Xander said panting. His big dark eyes were shining with determination in his dirt and blood smeared face.

“Okay, move,” Achilles said, and took over the oars. They shot through the water to the ship, and when they drew close, Xander grabbed a grappling hook and threw it expertly to the ship’s rail. Using it to pull them close, he then clambered up the side of the ship, gripping the knots in the line with his hardened hands, and was over the rail almost before Achilles could process it.

“Zeus,” he muttered, and climbed up after him.

The pirates were not expecting their prey to come and attack them, and those who’d remained on board were the skeleton crew of less valuable men. Xander whipped out his knives and soon, Achilles could see that his earlier remark “a stab to the gut and then into the sea,” was not just pleasant small talk; it was his motto.

Achilles grinned and drew his own sword, darting across the deck to slice off Saracen heads as they appeared over the rope ladder hanging down the side of the ship, splashing blood on the black hull. 

They vented every frustration they’d ever had, Xander and Achilles, on every Saracen pirate they found, and threw the bodies, dead or alive, into the sea. Finally, they paused, panting and searching the ship, and over the sides. At last, they were forced to face the sad truth: there was no one left to kill.

Xander climbed up the ladder to the foc’sle and stood atop it, looking around him. Then he raised his arms over his head and yelled, “This is my fucking ship now!! This is _my fucking ship!!”_

Achilles watched him, grinning. “Maybe it should be my fucking ship,” he called up.

“Fuck you!!” Xander yelled back.

Achilles smiled and shook his head. “Can you sail it?” 

“Hell, yes,” Xander said challengingly, staring Achilles in the eye as he came back down the ladder.


	17. Choice

Achilles got back to the compound at sunset, and Dru, from his perch, called, “It’s Achilles!”

The gate opened and Karan came to greet him with a hug. He, too, was sweaty and blood-stained. 

“About six. Apparently they break off in packs once they land,” Karan said, and pointed to a pile of black-clad corpses. “We’ll give them a Christian burial, though.”

“They aren’t Christian, are they?” Achilles asked.

“No,” Karan said, and smiled. “It’s the final insult.” 

Achilles smiled and gave a quirk of the eyebrows. Then he looked around the compound. “Any casualties?”

“Yes. I lost two field hands, and Cole was hurt… do you think you could look at him?”

“Of course,” Achilles went to Cole. Even as he addressed the injuries, and looked around at the damage, his mind was whirling.

They’d won. They’d won! His Hectors’ world was saved—for now, at least—and they were alive, and they were happy.

_This never happens,_ Achilles thought dazedly, and wondered if there was something he was missing.

“Here,” Karan handed him a chalice of wine and led him out to the courtyard. “To victory!”

They drank, and then put their chalices on a bench and embraced long and lovingly, unashamedly relieved. Achilles buried his face in his Hector’s neck, drinking in his scent. Oh, the warmth of him.

“How is Zoe?” Achilles asked, finally pulling himself away reluctantly.

“Oh, jubilant. She killed a Saracen. I was fighting him and she jumped on his back and cut his throat. My wife! The throat cutter,” Karan looked a bit shocked still.

“Well.” Achilles said. “You know what they say about women defending their young.”

“And me. She was defending me.” Karan said, eyes downcast.

“Yes.” 

They were silent for a moment. Karan looked overwhelmed. Then he sniffed.

“Oh God, where is Xander?”

“He is well. He captured a pirate ship.” Achilles told him.

Karan’s eyes got wide. Then he looked around at the compound. “Do you think—“

“No, I don’t. In fact, I think he might turn pirate, and … I think…” Achilles had a difficult time with this next part. “I think I must go with him.”

Karan’s eyes were soft when they turned back on him.

“You and Zoe deserve…” he couldn’t finish.

Karan nodded, but his eyes were filling. He embraced Achilles again, gathering him tightly, and they clung to each other. Achilles felt his eyes overflow and let the tears seep into his Hector’s shirt. 

Then finally, with effort, Achilles released Karan, gave him one more adoring look, and turned away. He walked without looking back, reminding himself with every footstep that no one gets everything, that people besides Achilles deserved happiness too, that Hector had always mourned the child he lost, and delighted in the children he had later, that he could come back and check on this Hector from time to time, that Zoe was actually worthy, that Xander needed someone, and that no matter what he did, he was going to lose them both again one day anyway, and that—he wiped his eyes—life is just like this sometimes.

Achilles went out the gate and waved good-bye to Dru. Then he trudged back to the village and found the woman whose lodgings he’d rented. He needed a bath and a change of clothing. 

***-

In the morning, the warrior arose with renewed optimism, and groomed himself neatly. He ate what his hostess provided, gave her a gold pebble, and walked to the waterfront. The beach featured piles of dead bodies that were even now being doused in fuel and set alight. The people of Rhamnus had no interest in giving Christian burials to 70 dead Saracens.

Achilles continued on to the docks where the fishing boats bobbed in the water. There, he found a group of fishermen at the end of the farthest dock admiring the Saracen’s ship. Xander had pulled the sails down, and apparently used his fishing boat to tug it as close as he could before dropping anchor. 

Achilles joined the men. “How did he get it so close?” He asked one of the grizzled fellows.

“Oh, we helped.” Said one.

“Friends, are you?” Achilles asked.

“Friends with Xander?! Like petting a hot coal. But he gave us gold pebbles if we helped, so—“

Smirking, Achilles nodded. “Of course.”

From what he could see, his Hector had wasted no time in staking his claim on the ship. White paint already covered a portion of the brow, and he stood and watched Xander hauling a bucket up the ship’s side with a rope, and then taking the bucket and pouring it on the deck. Well, Achilles thought, there was probably a fair bit of blood to wash away.

“Hey,” he said to the grizzled fisherman, “could you give me a ride out to him?”

Shrugging, the fisherman gestured to his own boat, and the warrior followed him onto it. 

“Don’t have any little gold pebbles in your pocket, do you?” He asked knowingly as he rowed them toward the boat.

Achilles held out two fists. “Guess which hand.”

When they arrived, he climbed up the ladder and came aboard. Xander glanced over at him.

“Oh, look who stopped to do his hair first,” he mocked, and returned to pushing the dirty water toward the deck drain with a large, bristled broom.

Achilles sat down on a convenient stool and watched him work.

“Why are you painting it white?” He asked.

“I don’t want to look like a Saracen, do I?” Xander kept working.

“What are you going to do with it?”

Xander finally put the broom aside and came to stand near Achilles, and gaze down at him. He looked a bit different, somehow. Less angry.

“I think this village needs protection,” he told Achilles. “With the gold you gave me, which you are not getting back, I can hire a crew. Train them. We can patrol these waters.”

Achilles nodded. “You’re going to train them to fight?”

Xander bristled immediately. “Oh, you think I can’t?”

Achilles laughed. “I didn’t say you couldn’t! I just asked!”

Xander relaxed a bit, but kept his stern dark eyes on Achilles. “So what are you doing here? Did you decide to give my brother’s marriage a chance at survival?”

Achilles sobered, and squinted into the morning breeze. “Yes.”

Xander nodded. “Care to help out around here?”

“I can do that,” Achilles said, turning back to him, relieved. He admitted to himself he hadn’t been sure it was an option. He looked to see Xander’s eyes wandering briefly over his shoulders and arms before dropping away discreetly, and smiled slightly to himself. Xander would be ten times harder to deal with than Karan, he thought, and felt his blood coming up a bit at the thought.

“Then you can start right now.” Xander walked to the bow, and Achilles followed him. He pointed to a pail full of blue paint with a paint brush sticking out of it. “I need you to paint the name on the bow, both sides.”

Achilles scowled a bit. “I see. What are you naming it?”

Xander held up his hands as if framing the words, “MY FUCKING SHIP,” he said, and then turned away.

Achilles turned after him, shaking his head with a smile. “No village wants to be patrolled by MY FUCKING SHIP.”

Xander tossed an amused glance at him, and picked up the bucket to lower it over the edge again. “You name it, then.”

The warrior turned back to the paint bucket and thought for a moment. “Can I name it after someone in Herodotus?”

Xander fed the line down, hand over hand, watching as the bucket hit the water. He nodded. “I like that idea. But not the boy who got fed to his father, that’s—“ he made a face.

“How about Hector?” Achilles asked. “He was the protector of the city of Troy. A great warrior. The eldest son.”

Xander tipped his head and regarded Achilles for a moment, and then smiled. It was the first time the warrior had seen him give a true, simple, happy smile.

“Alright,” he said, and started hauling up the bucket.

Achilles turned to his task, the sun warm on his shoulders, and looked out over the sparkling blue water. Perhaps their luck was finally starting to turn, he thought.


End file.
